


Knit One, Purl Two

by mollus



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: An Assorted Cast of Senior Citizens, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humour, Knitting, M/M, Pets, Recovery, confusion with the "Facebooks", crafting, interior design porn, no seriously, this is probably one of the fluffiest things i've ever done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-03-19 17:15:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13709022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollus/pseuds/mollus
Summary: What do you get when you mix knitwear, senior citizens (of several varieties), and social media together? Pure, unadulterated fluff arising from the best of intentions and some minor misconceptions. Featuring recovery through crafting, The Facebooks, and The Orange Hat of Destiny.





	1. Knit One

It all began, they guessed, when Janet Moore, aged 72, asked her great-niece to help her make a group for her knitting friends on “the facebooks”.

Janet had been commenting to her daughter over the phone one afternoon that while she and her friends loved to knit together, they often didn’t get to see the finished products unless they happened to finish while they were all spending time together. It was too difficult at their age, Janet said with some grumpiness, to try and lug whatever it was to someone’s house. But they all loved to show off.

Janet’s daughter, seeing a potential for Positive Relative Bonding Times between her mother and her own daughter, enthused about the miracle of Facebook for “making meaningful connections with loved ones” and “keeping in touch” and “learning new skills!”.

Janet’s daughter often forgot these days, that her mother, while 72, still knew when air-quotes were being used against her. She also remembered the last interaction with that particular grand-child had involved a whole lot of IPhone and not a whole lot of eye-contact.

She called her son instead, who bounced her to her other grand-child, Tara.

Janet got a “group”, and Tara got jet-black mittens for herself (with red hourglasses on them- some superhero thing, apparently, Janet doesn’t like watching the news much anymore) and a scarf for her girlfriend (with an arrow on them?). Both were happy with the arrangement.

Anyways, Janet’s friends were delighted with the idea- it took some explaining, but they all got it eventually, even if Geraldine (81) decided against making an account and just used her son’s (when the group saw the pictures of his new baby, and sent along an assortment of soft blankets, hats, and booties, the son was more than appeased).

What Janet did not account for was that the other ladies would think of adding new members to the group. It did not occur to Tara, for all her tech savviness, to make it a closed group. However, everyone seemed to know each other, and so Janet never realized the possibilities of what that little “open” designation meant. She decided it meant that the Facebooks was turned on.

Janet did, however, take the attitude of the group very seriously. There would be no rudeness, or pushiness, or general impoliteness in her domain.

So when the nice “Steve” person posted once asking for advice on beginning to knit, she called every person in the group that she knew and made it expressly clear that they would be nice to this new member. Who… no one seemed to know, exactly, but it was generally agreed upon that he must be someone’s great-nephew, or grand-child’s husband, or even more likely, another lady using their offspring’s account. Their only picture was of a young man standing with his back facing the camera, the account only stated that they worked for the government, and really, they seemed to have about as much understanding of the Facebooks as the rest of them (they signed their name on their first post on the group’s page, and there was an all-caps incident). So, it being another older lady made the most sense. A little odd that she wouldn’t introduce herself and explain the situation, but they all had trouble with the finer points of technology sometimes, there was no need to embarrass her by pointing this out.

As the self-appointed leader, Janet was determined to make this new person feel welcome. Especially considering, by the brief and polite way the first request for advice was written, the new lady was painfully shy.

So whenever “Steve” asked a question, she was answered immediately, often by several group members determined to help. When she posted a picture of a piece in progress, there was a flurry of praise and excitement.

After some time, “Steve” clearly became more comfortable with the rest of the ladies. She commented on different pieces, and very occasionally, offered a small piece of information about herself. When, after a request for advice on colour coordination choices was met with a brief but incredibly well-informed response, it became clear that she was a trained artist, there was brief chaos as requests for opinions flooded in. “Steve” seemed slightly overwhelmed at first, but it quickly became evident that she enjoyed the discussions. From slightly blurry webcam pictures, they put together eventually that she must have a few young relatives she spent time with fairly regularly. The same blurry hands and heads appeared occasionally sporting different mittens, hats, and scarves (one young lady with red hair was often seen looking exasperatedly, but fondly, at the camera. They decided she must be “Steve’s” granddaughter. They all knew that look).

Janet and her friends considered every one of these tidbits a personal victory.

At brunch, one cold winter morning, Delilah (78) managed to sum it up to Janet and Barbara-Jean (84). “I think she’s… lonely,” she said quietly, turning her teacup in her fingers. They agreed. They were none of them what you could call “young” anymore, except in spirit. They knew what it felt like to feel your family, once so dependent on you, drift away like the tide. To realize suddenly that the world had changed without you noticing, and seemed pretty content to move on without you. Knowing it, they could see it in “Steve”.

So they did their level best to make her feel supported. And it seemed like they were succeeding, just a little (a few posts more often, adding more to discussions… especially when someone mentioned swing music or bridge. Janet filed that one away), when suddenly, without warning, “Steve” disappeared for several months. There was a lovely, surprisingly clear picture of a lavender and zig-zagged white dishtowel sitting next to a cappuccino, with a comment of, “Number one out of three. Thanks for your help Rosie with the pattern. Steve.”, and then nothing. “Steve” always answered comments on her pictures. When three days went by, and there were no responses to the usual questions and praise, an undercurrent of worry swept through. Several of the ladies phoned Janet to ask if she’d heard anything- a sudden illness? Problems with children? Problems with the house?

Mustering her courage, Janet had even emailed “Steve” directly. Her first email ever. And nothing. She realized how little they really knew about her.

And they all knew what a sudden end of communication, from someone around their ages, could mean.

Subdued, they tried to continue on as before. As Mariella (69) posted after the third polite, but clearly concerned, post inquiring about “Steve’s” whereabouts, there was no use jumping to conclusions. “Steve” likely had some personal problems they didn’t care to discuss with the general group. Things came up (or out, as Mariella explained with a rather detailed example of her gall bladder surgery). But they all felt like a little something had been lost. 

It didn’t help that there was enough strange things happening to make even Janet watch the news occasionally. Berna (85) worriedly noted that there was a terrorist attack near her nephew’s home in D.C, and that her children were thinking of moving her back to New York. Then there was some situation with “files” of some kind, and everyone being able to read them. However, none of the ladies understood exactly how that worked- they hadn’t seen anyone walking around with folders of any kind?

And, as Marybeth (77) noted at bridge night several weeks later, “You can’t trust the papers as far as you can throw them, don’t any of you remember the 60s?” Pearlie (80) hummed in agreement, clinking her glass of wine with Marybeth. “We know the rule- they _write_ the news, they don’t _give_ the news.”

The next day, “Steve” posted a quiet hello, and asked if anyone had advice on fingerless gloves.

 

                                                         ______________________________________________________________________________

2 months later

 

Janet smoothed her skirt, slightly anxiously.

Meeting room G5 at the Brooklyn Central Library was not the one she would have chosen off the bat. The bored young man at the front desk had clearly not been taking her seriously when she’d come in last week requesting a space for their event, she thought, frowning as she remembered his condescending smirk. It was on the ground floor, which was good, but it almost wasn’t large enough to hold the amount of ladies and yarn it currently did.

Granted, it had been pretty satisfying to watch the smirk drop off the same clerk’s face when they’d trooped in today, presenting their online reservation and asking for the key.

35 elderly women are not a crowd to be trifled with.

But that wasn’t what Janet was worried about.

They had been absolutely overjoyed to see the post from “Steve”, and everyone had showered her with words of happiness at the sudden return. In the excitement, someone had proposed an official meeting of the knitters- and “Steve”, amazingly, had been one of the first to get on board.

Unfortunately, things had come up for a while- it was difficult to get 36 schedules to be perfectly in line, particularly with things like arranging rides from nursing homes, or doctor’s appointments, or anything to do with families. Eventually, however, they had finally hammered something out.

So today, Tuesday the 14th of June, at 1:30pm, was the first official meeting of the knitters.

And everyone was here.

Except “Steve”.

She’d said she was coming, Janet knew, and she’d even seemed excited. She’d talked about a project she’d been working on while she was “away”. But it was 1:45, and everyone was accounted for… but “Steve”.

Janet glanced around the room. Every single chair, wheelchair, and walker was at least slightly pointed towards the door.

That was it, really, and everyone knew it. Because eventually, in the time “Steve” had been “away” (she was getting a little sick of the necessary air quotes), they’d figured out- no one actually knew “Steve”. She was a total mystery.

And therefore, everyone was absolutely dying to meet her.

At 1:50, Janet sighed and turned away from the door, standing up to look at the room. Apparently a mystery was all they’d get. She could see the disappointment on the other ladies’ faces.

“Alright ladies, I guess we should get started- I think you all know me by now. There’s tea on the side board, and yes, Delilah, I remembered soy milk-”

“-I’m so sorry, are we late?” a voice from behind her interrupted.

Janet blinked and turned. Peeking in the half-open door (as much as someone with that many muscles _could_ peek, Janet thought, slightly discordantly) was a frankly massive young man with a floppy blond fringe. He stood nervously, tugging at the collar of a blue shirt neatly tucked into tan khakis.

She knew that face. That face was in her daughter’s 4th grade history book. She’d stolen her brother’s miniature shield that was carried by that face.

In the beat of silence that followed, Janet suddenly realized he was carrying a cloth bag with what could only be a ball of yarn sticking out of the top. There was only one conclusion.

“Steve?” She asked, carefully.

A shy smile broke over his face as he stood up straighter.

“We’re not too late for tea, are we?”

                                                                                               --------------------------------------

Janet sipped her tea and looked around happily. Everywhere around her, ladies were chatting, laughing, and sharing stories. Above everything, you could hear the clicking of dozens of needles.

But her favourite thing was what was happening in the centre of the room.

In a tight ring of 7 women, Steve sat happily knitting away on the edge of a truly massive periwinkle blanket. He was currently chatting away with Barbara-Jean and Pearlie, while keeping his hands moving and one eye at all times on the dark haired man sitting quietly next to him holding his yarn.

(Steve would have been enough of a surprise on his own, and then there was the other one. She’d almost fallen over when, in the midst of his greeting everyone at the door, she’d finally asked him “ _We_?” and Steve had blinked, looked around the room, politely excused himself, and walked out the door. They had all stood there confusedly for a moment when he’d returned, holding the hand of another frankly massive young man with long dark hair and a gleaming metal arm, who’d stared around at them a little nervously. Steve had said, without preamble, “This is my friend, Bucky.” Janet was fairly certain if any of the women in the room hadn’t already decided to adopt Steve, the look on his face when he looked at Bucky certainly clinched the rest of them.)

Dorothea (71) eased herself into a chair next to Janet. “Well,” she said quietly as she sipped her tea, “It’s a good thing I didn’t run away to be a fortune-teller in the circus like I wanted to when I was 14. I don’t think anyone could have quite predicted this.”

Janet watched as Ruthie (92) tapped on Bucky’s arm, asking him something. Bucky nodded seriously, and carefully passed the yarn back to Steve before getting up. He leaned into Steve’s side for a moment, who smiled happily at him before going back showing Barbara-Jean his extra-large needles. Bucky stalked over to the sideboard, carefully poured a cup of tea and placed it on a saucer with a biscuit. He silently walked it back over to his seat next to Ruthie, who grinned at him, reached into the bag on the front of her walker, and fished out a fuzzy orange toque with ear flaps. She traded the hat for the saucer, and Bucky stared at the hat for a moment before jamming it onto his head. He was trying to hide it, but he was clearly delighted. Ruthie patted his knee.

Janet grinned. Then, picking up her own needles and yarn from her lap, she started thinking about some new pieces. Perhaps a few extra-large sweaters. Those spandex outfits couldn’t be that warm.


	2. Purl Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing: Agent Summer.  
> Maybe don't call her that to her face, though.

Most people, when Bucky mentions his deprogramming and then subsequent transition into 21st century society, look directly to Steve as the reason behind all his success.

It’s not a difficult mistake to make. They are together constantly, have been since the moment Steve found him one night, a week after he woke up in a hospital bed in D.C, skulking nervously (yet menacingly, he did everything menacingly those days) in an alleyway in Brooklyn. Well. More like Bucky had found _him_ , really, he was damn certain it would have taken longer than a week to find the Winter Soldier if he didn’t want to be found. In any case, he’d let Steve coax him back to his apartment (the option of going to SHIELD hadn’t even been brought up. There were few easy decisions in those early weeks, but that was one of them). And Steve hadn’t left his side since, smoothly switching between partner, bodyguard, and guide to the 21st century as need be. Bucky trusts him like he literally trusts no one else. Almost.

 So the general assumption, from all those who have had the chance (“The _privilege_ , thank you,” Steve will correct, with eyes narrowed) to meet Bucky, is that Steve has been the primary and almost-singular factor in Bucky’s recovery. And Steve is mostly happy to let people think that assumption is correct.

But there are a few (a very, very few) who know that it is not, precisely.

Oh, Steve is certainly the central key to Bucky’s recovery, undoubtedly. But he is most certainly not the singular factor. There is one other who’s importance, Steve makes certain those very few know, has been imperative to Bucky’s new life. The Avengers gave her codename: Agent Summer.

Or they did, until Bucky told her about it and she almost lost hold of her walker from laughing.

                                                              ----------------------------------------------------------

She’ll tell you her name is Ruthie. She’s 92.

She’s a retired nun with 16 great-nieces and –nephews, lives in an extended-care home in Brooklyn, and is the second-best thing that’s ever happened to Bucky. And it all began with The Orange Hat.

                                                             __________________________________________________________________

Bucky had been very, very uncomfortable that day. Mapping-exits levels uncomfortable. Targeting-decoys levels uncomfortable. Potential-international-incidents levels uncomfortable. But he’d been hiding it.

Pretty well, too, he had thought. Steve had had to go find him when they’d been late for the meeting, as he’d suddenly been so petrified about being in a room with people he didn’t trust not to somehow hurt Steve, and as a person he didn’t trust not to hurt anyone else. He hadn’t mentioned this though- when Steve had pushed open the door to the meeting room, he’d just slunk sideways back two steps, and then straight through the conveniently-un-secured ceiling tiles of the hallway. He could do that without alerting anyone, the hallway had been empty and the Winter Soldier had always known how to be silent.

He really hadn’t meant to. He’d panicked.

Thankfully, once he’d gotten into the ceiling, his brain had slowed down enough for him to think about how this would all look to Steve, once he realized Bucky was gone. Steve had been distracted for a moment by actually seeing his friends (his “ _dames_ ”, he remembered Codename: Falcon, Wilson-Sam saying once, in a strange tone that had made Steve punch the man’s shoulder but not in a way intended to hurt the smaller man) but he would realize very quickly that Bucky was gone. He always did, which was why Bucky was still around.

He managed to quickly army-crawl through the ceiling to the right spot in the ceiling that would drop him around the corner and right in front of a display of children’s books (of course he knew where that would be. He’d memorized the blueprints of the library the week before, there was no need to be unprepared). He popped the ceiling tile out, dropped through the opening carrying the tile, landed, and tossed it neatly back into place. Then pretended to be engrossed in the display, which was about 5.7 seconds before Steve came around the corner. Bucky had told him he’d gotten distracted by the colours of the display, told him they’d reminded him of the old paperbacks they had in their first apartment. He couldn’t actually remember those, but it made sense with what he _did_ remember, and it made Steve’s expression soften; the lines in his forehead smooth out.

Steve had caught his hand and turned to take him back to the meeting room, and therefore missed the finger Bucky had drawn across his neck, aimed at a young clerk who had been watching from another room for the last 2 minutes (that clerk changed jobs the next week, citing “personal stresses” as reason for leaving).

Which was how Bucky had found himself 45 minutes later, holding a loop of periwinkle-blue yarn between his two fists and listening to Steve talk about mitten patterns to a circle of elderly women.

And being desperately uncomfortable.

So far, it seemed like he was still hiding it- it helped that Steve could only give him 75% of his attention, as opposed to his usual 95%- but he wasn’t certain how much more he could handle. The room was feeling smaller and smaller every second, filled with scents that were almost comforting in their familiarity, and that much more disturbing for his having no idea why he found most of them familiar (three weeks later, he’d ask about a primary one and Steve would answer “Talcum powder, Buck” and by that point Bucky would smile with an old flash of a dance hall, shined shoes, and a hallway to the side for “private moments”).

Steve had looked so happy to be there. He really, really hadn’t wanted to do anything to upset that, but he’d been moments away from retreating into the ceiling or going straight out the window, whichever was smoother.

Then a small foot had crept into his field of vision and tapped the floor next to his battered black work boot.

Startled out of his impending panic, he’d zipped his head to the right and found himself eye-to-eye with one of the smallest, oldest women he thought he had ever seen. She was wrinkled like a tiny raisin, dressed in a blue knitted cardigan over a flowery pink shirt and neat skirt, and Bucky thought she couldn’t be more than about 4 and a half feet tall when standing. She also appeared to be considering him with an impressively firm gaze from under mounds of cotton-candy like white hair.

He blinked at her for a moment, a little unnerved at having someone look his dead in the eye besides Steve. His long hair, hulking appearance, and solid-metal prosthetic (and “general murder-gaze”, as Codename: Ironman, Stark-Tony called it) tended to make most people avert their eyes without Bucky even trying. And when he was… well. He’d managed to clear an entire movie theatre without moving, once. Steve had been almost impressed.

She considered him for another moment, then leaned slightly closer and said, “You couldn’t manage to find me a cup of tea, could you dearie?”, and sat back in her chair.

A request. Bucky could do requests. Not small talk. But requests, those he could manage.

He nodded, and then carefully turned back to Steve and set the loop of yarn down into Steve’s canvas bag. He leaned into Steve’s side for a moment, and he paused his conversation long enough to look over at Bucky. Steve quirked an eyebrow, and Bucky nodded back. They could still read each other like books- some things never change. Bucky stood up, and Steve went back to his conversation, needles never stopping their movement.

Bucky walked over to the side board. It was heaped with several kinds of squares, crackers, and cookies, as well as tea, so he found a saucer and a few biscuits to go with the drink. He thought about the old lady. She didn’t strike him as someone who would want sugar for some reason. He poured some cream into the bottom of a teacup, and topped it up with tea.

He brought the tea back to his chair quickly (he suddenly had a dim memory of another tea party, but he was fairly certain it had more knives and less English involved so he shook it from his mind) and sat down. He silently held it towards the woman.

The woman reached into her bag (Bucky actively restrained himself from skittering backwards, some habits were a little harder to break) and brought out something knitted in an almost fluorescently orange colour. Without comment, she motioned for Bucky to take it.

Slightly bewildered, Buck took it with the hand that wasn’t holding the saucer, and when she motioned again, he passed the saucer over. She then calmly sipped her tea and looked at him expectantly.

Bucky looked at what he was holding. It was indeed very orange, and actually, he noticed as he touched it with his flesh hand, a fuzzy and soft texture. He picked up one side of it, and realized it was a kind of floppy hat.

With ear flaps.

Bucky looked back at the old woman, and jammed it on his head.

It was even softer than he’d realized, and quite warm. 

As he sat there, Bucky realized he was starting to back down from the edge of panic. The soft wool seemed like just the right weight and texture to ground him in the present.

Bucky blinked. Normally it took, at the bare minimum, immediate solitude and total silence for two hours for him to come down from panicking.

Bucky slowly uncurled his hands from the sides of the hat and placed them in his lap, allowing a sigh of relief to escape his lips.

He looked back at the woman.

She was quietly sipping her tea next to him, seemingly totally unaware of the near-miracle that had happened next to her. Or at least he thought, until she deliberately reached over and, very gently, patted his knee.

Almost no one, with the exception (as always, Bucky thought, Steve was _always_ the exception) of Steve, had touched him deliberately with kindness since he’d started his recovery. He was too easily spooked, and the other Avengers had learned (some the hard way, he recalled the incident with codename: Hawkeye Barton-Clint and the high five and the shattered 40 th story window) to give him just that little bit of extra space at all times. And certainly no one at Hydra had been considerate with how they touched him.

It didn’t matter, Bucky always told himself. Steve made a concentrated effort to be as easy with his touching as he’d always been- leaning into his side on the train, a hand on the back of his neck when they watched a movie, a feather-light kiss right before he went to sleep, always. So it didn’t matter that the rest of the world gave him a wide berth. That people on the street parted ways before him. That the Avengers shook Steve’s hand, slapped him on the back, and then stood back and waved at Bucky.

It was ok. It kept everyone safe and happy.

Even if Bucky hadn’t had any kind of an incident where he’d hurt anyone in months. Even if he was trying, _really trying_ now, to integrate into the chaotic world he’d awoken in.

It didn’t matter.

But when that tiny woman reached over and gave him the kind of interaction he’d watched so many times from afar, it felt like for once, it mattered. He mattered.

The woman went back to her knitting.

And Bucky decided that the world might be a nasty place, but that nastiness better think twice before ever coming near the woman sitting next to him.

_____________________________________________________________

Later, when they’d finally made it home and were snuggled up on the couch, Steve had asked him what he thought of the group.

“Not bad,” he’d replied. “Picked up someone’s number.”

Steve had choked on his sandwich.

_______________________________________________________________

And so, they had a routine. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons were Ruthie time.

Bucky had thought nothing would come of it. He’d learned from Steve that Ruthie was a key member of the knitting club, a regular bridge player, and spent almost every day volunteering at a local soup kitchen or watching her grand-nieces and –nephews. How could she possibly have time for a reclusive ex-assassin? (“ex- _war prisoner_ , thank you _very_ much” he could hear Steve insisting to him).

Then one day, Steve’s work phone rang.

Steve had sighed, uncurling from his position on the couch where he had been sketching a napping Bucky. Bucky had, of course, snapped awake the second before the phone had started ringing, and had attempted to not glare at it.

“Maybe it’ll be a bank robbery again.” Steve had said hopefully. Those, he could usually pass on to another Avenger, or really the police.

Steve answered the call.

Immediately the apartment had filled with the sounds of screaming, explosions, and general chaos.

“-call Cap! Friggin’ _lizards_ man-” Codename: Hawkeye, Barton-Clint’s voice had suddenly cut in. “Christ on a goddamn _pancake_ Cap they’re purple this time and I’ve got _slime_ and _glass_ in my-”

“On my way.” Steve had cut him off, ending the call and dashing into his work room.

Bucky had sighed, mentally resigning himself to an afternoon of watching Netflix and trying not to worry about his super-powered boyfriend. He tried his best not to act moody when Steve dropped a hurried kiss to his cheek and sprinted out the door.

Then, just as he’d been flicking through his list, trying to think of _anything_ that would be distracting enough for the worry level that purple slime lizards brought him to, _his_ phone had rung.

Bucky had almost fallen off the couch, ex-assassin be damned.

Which was how he found himself, a half hour later, drinking a very nice cup of tea with a slice of lemon pound cake, looking at pictures of Ruthie’s past dogs.

Suddenly, three hours had passed, and Steve was phoning him to tell him the lizards had been de-slimed and un-mutated, and asking where on earth was Bucky?

He’d never been able to pass Steve’s missions so easily before.

As she’d ushered him out the door, a slice of pound cake in Tupperware under his arm for Steve, she’d pinned him with one steely eye.

“I assume next time you won’t make the lady do the asking.” She’d said. And then smiled, and patted his arm as high as she could reach- his elbow.

So, it started like that. Every time the world looked like it was going to end, every time Steve was stuck in endless press conferences, every time Bucky found himself staring at the clock with endless hours of solitude before him. He’d call Ruthie. And they would have tea, and listen to big band music, or talk about Ruthie’s grand-nieces/nephews, or Steve’s attempts to teach Bucky to knit, or just sit quietly in companionable silence.

At first, it took all of Bucky’s nerve to call. He’d sit staring at the phone for an hour, two hours, feeling his arm calibrate and recalibrate as it sensed his nerves.

But Ruthie never seemed to mind. She always answered the phone with the same expectant tone, and invited him right over. And Bucky always left feeling a little more at ease, a little more…

Like everyone else.

                                                                              _________________________________________________________

And so eventually, it became routine. Tuesday and Thursday afternoon were Ruthie time.

                                                                             __________________________________________________________

It happened so gradually, Bucky didn’t even notice.

At first, they just spent time with each other.

A long time ago, during the war (a lifetime ago, Bucky usually thinks), he’d loved the swing music that he’d started to hear in London. So bright, the first time he’d heard it on leave, he’d danced a hole in his left shoe.

It was one of his favorite memories to come back to him (granted, pretty much anything that wasn’t a blur of screaming or blood was a favorite memory, but Bucky will take what he can get most days).

He was simultaneously delighted and completely disconcerted when, the second time he visited her (an afternoon-long press conference, Steve had come home after and slept on Bucky’s lap for 13 hours), she had put a record on and a tune straight from his blurry memories came floating out to him.

He’d snapped to, he learned later, about a half hour later, to see Ruthie sipping a cup of earl grey next to him with one eye on him and another on a crossword.

Every time he came to see her after that, there was music playing.

So if he had to guess, it started the afternoon when they’d listened to a song three times in a row, at Bucky’s shy request.

“You know,” She’d said, passing him a biscuit, “This is an excellent record, but my friends Bertha and Roger borrowed my favorite a few weeks ago and I’ve been meaning to get it back. I don’t suppose you could help an old lady down the hall to their apartment?”

Well, Bucky had thought, his mind might be scrambled eggs, but his manners weren’t.

So he’d slowly escorted her to the apartment 6 doors over, where they were joyfully welcomed by a couple in their 60s and a very enthusiastic golden retriever named Scout. Upon hearing what they were there for, Bertha had insisted they also take a few of her favorite records as well, and let her know what Bucky thought later. They’d listened to them for the rest of the afternoon.

So of course they should go back the next time Bucky visited.  Bertha had insisted, and it would only be polite. And when it happened to be that Bertha’s friend Dorothea was visiting, well, apparently she liked music as much as Bucky, so that was alright. Ruthie, Bertha, and Dorothea together could chat up a storm, but they didn’t seem to mind if Bucky just sat quietly and listened. They always made sure he had at least one biscuit on his plate (“So thin! Don’t you know chocolate is a vegetable?” Bertha had said with a wink. Bucky did not, in fact, know that. He assumed it must be a future thing, and if so, it was certainly another win for the future, right up there with hot showers) and if he drifted away from the conversation once in a while, no one seemed to mind.

It also made sense when, about a month later, Dorothea brought out a brochure for a summer showcase of big band music at a public park and asked if Bucky would mind escorting them, that he said he would.

It didn’t occur to him until they were in the park, all neatly settled in on a bench with the swells of music wrapping around him, that he was willingly out in public. With strangers. And no planned emergency exit routes, or strategizing most likely forms of assailants, or false identities.

He’d felt his breath shortening. The music had started to become too loud, and the warm sunlight too hot. Things started to blur. Was this a flashback, or the future? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember what year it was. And if he couldn’t remember what year it was, what mission did that make this? If he couldn’t remember the mission, how could he avoid punishment?

He’d have to go back to the Chair. He didn’t want to go back- but it was order, he would have to go _back-_

And then, a tiny foot had crept into the corner of his vision, and tapped the ground next to his boot twice.

He’d been jolted straight into his memory of that time, just a few months before. His head had automatically snapped up, and once again, he’d found Ruthie staring him down. After a few moments, she’d carefully reached across to his hand, and folded it between her two wrinkled ones.

He looked at their hands. He’d never been placed on a mission with an elderly woman.

Which meant it couldn’t be a mission.

So it had to be the future.

And there was no more punishments in the future.

Slowly, everything else started to come back as Bucky grounded himself. The warmth of the sunlight faded into normal summer heat, the chatter of the people around him dissolved into a quiet murmur instead of an overwhelming wall of noise. He could feel the breeze on his cheeks, his seat on the bench, and the ground beneath his feet.

His breathing slowed.

He looked around. Ruthie and Bertha were quietly talking. The musicians appeared to have stopped for a moment between sets. Dorothea was trading money for what looked like lemonade at a nearby stand.

Ruthie’s hands were still gently, but firmly, clasped around his.

He was ok. He was safe.

Bucky had leaned back in his chair, and relaxed into a relieved puddle. A relieved puddle with his eyes open, but for once, not a shaking mess.

Ruthie had held at least one of his hands for the rest of the afternoon. And every time things had started to get overwhelming, she’d squeezed gently, and he’d been able to remember where, and who, he was.

So the next month, when Bertha had suggested a reading at the library, he’d said yes.

_______________________________________________

It took 7 months for anyone (besides Steve, of course) to realize what was happening.

Typically, mission debriefs happened at the Tower. This time, however, the last alien imploded 2 blocks from Steve and Bucky’s apartment. Exhausted, Steve had offered their kitchen as a regrouping place before they all dispersed.

Tony had happened to be the one talking directly to Steve when he opened the door. While Steve kept walking, Tony hit the brakes so hard there was almost an Avengers pile up in the front hallway.

Natasha pulled herself off of Clint’s back, where their alien-guts-stained uniforms had stuck together when they collided. She folded her arms. “Tony,” she said in a mild tone that usually made anyone smart duck for cover, “I’m currently covered in glass, possibly intestines, and have two broken toes. I would hope there’s a good reason you’ve become a doorstop.”

Tony turned, and opened and closed his mouth. Twice.

Tony being speechless was more than enough for the rest of them to know something weird was going on. They all crowded into the doorway, and stopped dead.

The Winter Soldier was doing what looked like a careful lindy hop with an 80-year-old woman with fluffy white hair. Surrounded by about 5 other elderly couples, all energetically dancing.

While wearing a brilliantly orange beanie with ear flaps. Its pompom was bouncing.

Bucky grasped the woman carefully around her waist and lifted her into the air, spinning around, before gently depositing her back onto the ground as the song came to an end. He grinned down at her as she reached up to pinch his cheek.

“Well.” Clint said. “That’s… a pretty good one.”

“Anyone want coffee?” Steve called from the kitchen.

___________________________________________________

Bucky asks Ruthie, once, why she’d talked to him that first time at the library.

He remembered how he had felt that day. Like he was being run over by a truck of sensations, some that he could place and a lot that he couldn’t. Totally overwhelmed and minutes from losing it. And it was only a few month after he’d come back to Steve. Still really only about half Bucky Barnes. So he was sure he’d looked a little, well, _intimidating_ , at least.

Ruthie snorted, rolling her eyes in a way that Bucky now mostly associated with her interactions with one of her nephews in particular.

“Dearie.” She said, fixing her gaze on him. “You might have had a metal arm and some hair, but intimidating people don’t usually look like a raccoon that’s been cornered in a dumpster.”

Bucky grimaced.

Ruthie smiled, and reached up to grasp his chin between her finger and her thumb.

“But more than that,” She continued with a quiet voice, “You looked like someone that could use a friend. And dearie, that look has been one I’ve known for 92 years.”

Bucky smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap for now, folks! But frankly- this entire chapter was unplanned so who knows, there might be more in the future. Besides, Bucky doesn't know how to knit. Yet.


	3. Knots and Bubbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said the last chapter was unplanned? I sat down today to write two things:  
> 1) How Bucky learned to knit  
> 2) a heist themed crime boss!Steve and cop!Bucky au
> 
> And then did neither of those things.  
> This is the result.  
> Hope you guys enjoy!

 

Bucky was a terrible knitter.

Steve had been so excited when Bucky had, a year after returning to them, mentioned to Sam that he wished he could give something to Steve the way Steve was always giving things to Bucky.

(At that point, Bucky had 4 pairs of mittens, a periwinkle throw blanket, two hats, and a camouflage patterned scarf.)

“You’re going to love it!” Steve said happily, as he pulled skein after skein out of the cabinet in their spare bedroom for Bucky to examine (it was supposed to be Bucky’s room initially, but that lasted for a  week, until the night when Bucky appeared in Steve’s bedroom with his pillow and promptly never left again).

“It’s so relaxing, and the girls from the club are so helpful… they’ll be so pleased!” He’d handed Bucky some bright green yarn and some needles, and they’d gotten to it.

It was not good.

Sometimes he accidentally ripped the yarn with his metal hand. Often, he managed to tangle it around himself instead of getting it onto the needles. After he finally manages to get two rows, he realized he’s knit his hair into it as well, and was now so hopelessly entangled they had to cut him free.

Steve had taken it well. “It’s ok, Buck,” he’d said, as Bucky despondently handed back the needles. “We’ll find you something.”

So they’d recruited Sam for it. Sam had agreed happily, talking excitedly about the different kinds of art therapy he’d used with his veterans. His first suggestion was water colours, citing how many of his guys enjoyed it, but Bucky had an immediate flashback involving eye sockets and a smashed paint set, so they decide to skip that route.

Besides, Bucky had been watching Steve and Ruthie knit. He likes the idea that art can be useful, as well as decorative.

Sam’s next suggestion was crocheting.

Bucky accidentally snapped two crochet hooks, and then embedded a third in the wall when Steve startled him.

They decided to avoid anything with needles for a while after that, which took sewing and rug hooking out.

Sam liked Steve’s suggestion of pottery, but Bucky flat out refused. “I can crush a steel bar with my hand,” he said flatly. “Maybe imagine what would happen when we added soft clay, or finished pottery, to the mix.” They conceded that pretty quickly.

(Natasha, present for that conversation, decided to take a class and became fairly good at it. She started selling the results at a local craft fair, using an old alias of a Québécoise woman. She enjoyed herself thoroughly, and ended up opening an Etsy page.)

Bucky briefly considered woodworking, as he knew he had the knife skills for it, but realized quickly that it could be a slippery slope to memories he didn’t necessarily want back.

He branched sideways into cooking for a week, but quickly remembered that had never been his forte. Even when he didn’t have to worry about crushing tomatoes to a pulp or not noticing when he spilled burning soup on his chest due to a torture-induced high pain tolerance. He and Steve will eat pretty much anything, a holdback from formative years in the Depression, but after the fourth burned meal, they came to the conclusion that the best part of over one hundred years of combined military back-pay was as much take out as they could ever want and never having to do the dishes.

It was starting to seem like this was the one goal Bucky had set for himself that he wouldn’t be able to accomplish. Which Bucky hated, because this was different. This was more important than being able to go to the grocery store or buying new clothes or shaving without freaking out at the sound of the clippers. Because this was about being able to do something for Steve.

Steve, who made him safe and warm and happy and feel like he deserved his life back. Who wrapped him up in yarn like every stitch could showcase just how much he loved him.

Bucky just wanted to be able to give him something like that.

As usual, it was Ruthie who saved the day.

She’d very nicely not laughed as Bucky had narrated the woes of his attempts at crafting, although she had grinned outright when he told her about his attempts at cooking.

“Well, it’s not for everyone.” She said, passing a skein of fuzzy orange yarn to him to hold for her (after the Orange Hat, everything she’d made for Bucky had been orange. He loved it, and wore them when he wanted to appear particularly non-threatening. Last week a woman had let him watch her corgi at the park while she ran into a convenience store, which counted as a win to him).

They’d sat quietly for a few minutes, then Ruthie had stopped her needles and turned to him with a thoughtful look.

“You remember Janet, right? Well, her granddaughter recently got into soap-making. You could give that a try?”

At Ruthie’s polite request, Janet had happily sent along some very specific instructions from her granddaughter a few days later. Steve printed them out for Bucky and left him to it, dropping a kiss on his head.

Bucky considered them at the kitchen table. He’d have to find some supplies, and it would involve some kitchen work, but it didn’t seem overly difficult. The instructions the granddaughter had given were for a bar of coconut shea butter soap, and she’d specified that it was because “it smells like goddamned coconut cream pie.”

Steve loved coconut cream pie.

(Everyone _always_ assumed Steve’s favorite pie was apple. Bucky had come back three weeks before Steve’s birthday, and even with his brain still decidedly on the side of “scrambled”, had been totally baffled when the team had presented Steve with apple pie to celebrate on the 4th of July. He hadn’t said anything at the time, not fully trusting his memories or the people around him yet, but when he saw the look on Steve’s face, he’d known. Hours later, after they’d gone home, Bucky had disappeared from the apartment. Steve had been close to panic two hours later when he’d suddenly reappeared and handed Steve a box from a local bakery with a freshly made coconut cream pie.

Steve had grabbed Bucky in a tight hug, and Bucky had pretended not to notice if his tshirt got a little damp from where Steve had shoved his face.)

So Bucky spent an afternoon hunting down the supplies from a local craft store. Based on a short conversation with an enthusiastic clerk, he decided to go with as many organic ingredients as he could- he couldn’t say what the results of this endeavor would be, but better supplies couldn’t hurt.

He carefully followed the instructions from where he’d taped them to the counter, first melting the solid oils together in a pot on the stove, then combining the liquids in a bowl, and then mixing it all back together with a few drops of essential oils. He poured it into a mold and let it sit for another day, anxiously checking on it every few hours. Then he sliced it up. It made two bars, and he gave one to Steve, and kept one for himself.

It was even better than he expected, even if not necessarily _how_ he expected.

Steve started showering with it immediately. Now, when he walked by, Bucky got tiny whiffs of coconut cream. He could figure out where Steve was just by following his nose. After a few days, just the smell of coconut would relax him immediately. Steve decided that he also liked this reaction in Bucky, which led to a few interesting shower experiences.

(Sam, while insisting that he _really_ did not want to know the details, had talked about the strong relationship between positive memories and scent. That had definitely been a revelation).

Bucky used it just for washing his hands, and realized quickly that it made them deliciously soft after a few days of use, which was honestly a first. Working on the docks in the 20s had never made for nice skin, and neither had camping across war-torn Europe, or being a war prisoner for a major terrorist organization. Steve had certainly been happy with this result as well.

And having this bit of luxury made Bucky realize some things. Like how he felt after giving himself just this little bit of extra comfort, even if it wasn’t strictly necessary. How it brightened his day, even if just in a small way, even on bad days. He started to include other things like that in his daily routine. Shampoo that also smelled good, and got rid of his constant tangles. Clean clothes every day.  

Which made him remember some things. Getting his hair _just_ right with pomade before a night on the town. Shining his shoes to a mirror bright polish. A seam pressed sharp as a razor in his clothes.

Bucky had care about his appearance, once. And now, he thought, rubbing his smooth hands on his face, maybe he could again.

So with this success under his belt, he tried again. This time he tried a lavender scented bar, at Ruthie’s request, with more shea oil.

Ruthie was over the moon- she’d been trying to find the right soap for years now, her hands getting dryer and dryer as the years got on. She enthused over Bucky’s creation for weeks, causing him to duck his head and smile in delight every time. He ended up giving a chunk of it to Dorothea, who asked him for some after hearing about it from Ruthie, and she praised it so much when she saw him again his ears turned pink.

So he kept going. The enthusiastic clerk from the craft store was delighted to find someone with the same passion, and every time Bucky went there he came back with at least two new combinations or ideas to try.

And then he found Pinterest.

(Steve wandered into the kitchen at 8AM as usual the next morning to see Bucky on the couch, hunched over their tablet.

“Early morning, Buck?” He yawned, looking for the coffeepot.

“…Morning?” Bucky had said, after a beat, looking at Steve with slightly bloodshot eyes.)

Much as Bucky knew Steve would accept anything he made with joy, after the 8th bar, even he knew they don’t need any more soap themselves. And by this point he’d figured out how to make small, individualized batches.

So he started making them for the team.

Lemon-ginger for Nat. Mint and poppy seed for Tony. Coffee bean for Clint (with the specific instruction that despite how good it smells, he _not_ eat it, to Clint’s disappointment). Green tea for Bruce. Chocolate and shea butter for Sam.

(Scott actually looked like he was going to cry in confusion when Bucky silently handed him a bar of charcoal scrub, along with a bubble-gum scented one shaped like a cupcake for his daughter.

Natasha used hers to literally wash out the mouth of a villain that insulted her. Bucky was delighted, and made a turmeric one for that specific purpose.)

Journalists started to speculate in their articles about the scents that the Avengers had started wearing. They insisted it must be a new boutique line of scents made by a famous designer. Someone at Buzzfeed created a contest to have readers determine what perfume or cologne each Avenger must be wearing.

Every soap he made was a little better than the last, as he tweaked and experimented with oils and melting points and additional ingredients. His supplies grew to take up the other half of the spare bedroom, so it became a riot of colorful yarn and tubs of carefully labeled oils. Steve loved it, and told Bucky delightedly that they might need to look for a bigger apartment.

Clint suggested at one point that Bucky consider selling some of it, while watching Wanda rub her hands on Pietro’s face in delight after she uses her new bar of rosewater and seaweed with glitter.

“I bet you’d make a few bucks man, this stuff is all the rage nowadays. Have you ever been to Lush? Don’t, your stuff is better.” He said, grinning at Pietro as the man sniffs his bar of vanilla and thieves’ oil.

Bucky smiled quietly and shook his head. “Nah,” he replied, watching Wanda raise her hands and make her magic glow around her glittery fingers. Next to her, Peter Parker blinked in confusion at his red and blue-striped cinnamon and coconut bar. “This is enough.”

Later, as he tucks himself in with Steve under the periwinkle throw blanket and inhales the scent of coconut from the crook of Steve’s neck, he thinks it again.

 

 

(The next morning, Steve smiles sleepily at him. “You could call it Soldier Soaps, Buck.”

“…Maybe.”)


	4. Mission Code: Knitwise

The night was cool and dark, and it was time to go.

“Alright everyone, let’s gather up!” Steve said in his best leader voice.

(Tony called it the Cap voice, until the first time Bucky heard it. He’d snorted in disbelief.

“You insult Agent Carter’s memory, Stark.”)

His team assembled in front of him. Steve nodded in satisfaction as he inspected their outfits. Everyone was in top shape and blended in seamlessly to the night. Dark masks and hoods covered their faces, rendering them anonymous and hopefully invisible.

Thus assured, he straightened to parade rest and addressed them.

“This is your standard dark mission. You know your time limits- we have three hours to get in and get out. You know your parameters. You have your equipment. Use all available opportunities to the fullest extent- mission goal is imperative. You each know your targets. We get in, we get the job done, we get out.”

Tapping his ear bud on, he brought his wrist to his masked face. “Agents, sign off.”

In perfect sequence, his team lifted their wrists responded through their communicators.

“Designation White Widow: confirm.”

“Designation Gimli: confirm.”

“Designation Blue Eyes: confirm.”

“Designation Watson: confirm…”

And on they went until finally, with a smirk Steve could hear, even if he didn’t turn his head to see it-

“Designation Sergeant, confirm.”

He kept his face straight, perfect military blank, but he knew Bucky could read the underlying grin.

“On my mark–” He brought his watch to eye level, watching the minute hand until it hit the hour.

“Move out!”

With several whoops, the team scattered, heading out into the park.

“You know, I think you’ve finally found your perfect audience, Stevie.” Bucky said, from his right. He blended almost completely into the shadows next to Steve, wearing dark jeans and a hoodie like the rest of Steve’s crew, with the usual exception of The Hat fairly glowing under his hood. He rolled his shoulders, and stuck a hand towards Steve.

“Request for ammunition, _sir_!” He said with a grin.

Steve grinned back. He reached into the sports bag hanging over one shoulder, and drew out several pairs of mittens in a shopping bag.

“Request granted, Sergeant,” He replied, handing them over.

(Steve has to admit, one thing he likes about the future is getting to kiss your sergeant when you hand him supplies.)

Bucky headed off, and Steve set out on his perimeter walk of Central Park. In his ear, he could hear the happy whispers of his crew as they got to their work. He kept half an ear to them as he walked, and kept the rest of his attention directed towards his surroundings.

“Nah Sara, put the scarf around that oak tree-”

“Look, that pole is the right height for that hat-”

“-Could tie that sweater to the lamp post…”

Seeing a person sleeping underneath a bench, Steve slowed down to muffle his footsteps. He carefully crept up to the bench, and reached into his bag. As quietly as he could, he drew out a purple scarf and placed it gently on some of the bags piled at the end of the bench.

He stood up carefully, looking for signs of wakefulness. The person didn’t stir.

Mentally considering his bag of assorted knitwear, he checked the scarf off the list.

Mission task one of twelve: accomplished.

Steve tiptoed away and set to work.

_________________________________________

This particular avenue for Steve began, of course, with Janet.

Six months previous, Steve had just gotten back from a hell of a mission. There was concrete dust in his hair and blood in his boots. When he unstrapped his jacket, a tooth had fallen out of a buckle.

But that wasn’t what had him lying in Bucky’s lap on the couch, still wearing most of his dirty uniform, staring at the ceiling.

It had been the last part of the mission. The part where when they’d finally caught up to the person causing all the havoc, murdering civilians, destroying chunks of the city, the guy had turned to Steve and said he’d done it for him. That he was only trying to be a good citizen, getting rid of the “illegitimate ones”, all in service to the great Captain America. That he knew Cap would be on his side. He’d pulled up his sleeve to show a tattoo of the shield on his forearm, and looked at Steve with joy.

With brotherhood.

It had been six hours and two liters of water, and Steve still couldn’t get the bitter taste from his mouth.

From the side table, his phoned had blipped. Steve had sighed, anticipating a message from Fury looking to debrief. Never mind that all Steve wanted to do was shower and sleep for the next ten years.

He had morosely picked up the phone, and realized it was actually a text. From Janet.

That was enough to have him sitting up on the couch.

Janet, despite having made much progress with technology since her beginnings with the Facebooks, had declared an all-out war against texting.

“It’s just…odd!” He could hear her saying. “If I wanted to send an email, I would do it. I know how to write a good letter. If I need to get in touch with someone quickly, I’ll call them. Why would I ever need to email someone something so short? Why on earth would I need to include pictures of tiny faces?”

(Privately, Steve agrees with her. But he’s pretty sure if he ever mentioned it to the team, he’d never live it down. Steve does have _some_ common sense.)

Maybe it was from a wrong number?

But he had her phone number as a contact. So he was certain it was a text from her, and not someone else.

Suddenly he was worried. If it was something Janet had felt the need to text, it had to be something important. Something she needed in writing. Hurriedly, he’d opened the text.

It read:

_Dear Steve: IMPORTANT. Look at what my Tara did this weekend! Made me think of you. – Janet_

There was a picture attached.

Baffled, Steve tapped the picture to expand it into a hologram.

(When Stark had come over with the latest versions of his Stark phones, Steve had tried everything to dissuade him from handing them over. His supersoldier strength and Stark’s electronics had never gotten along well, despite Tony reinforcing them every time. Let alone Bucky’s startle reflexes. Then Stark had showed him the holograph capabilities, bringing up a short video of people dancing. Bucky, a month returned to Steve, had suddenly appeared from the spare room he had been hiding in for three days and had carefully taken the phone from Tony, never taking his eyes from the image. It was the first time he’d willingly come within three feet of anyone in the Avengers. Tony would jokingly complain later that Steve would need to warn him so he could put on his armor if Steve was planning on hugging him ever again.)

The picture had bloomed up in front of Steve’s face. In it, a group of seven people stood with their arms around each other in front of a building Steve recognized as the American Museum of Natural History in Manhattan. They were standing in front of… something large, and… red? He didn’t see Janet’s granddaughter in the picture, so he assumed she must be the one taking the photo. Then he squinted. Wasn’t there a statue of Roosevelt in front of that museum? He thought he remembered it being in the news lately, because there had been angry comments about having a statue of a man that had defended colonial expansion and racial inequalities.

He’d almost forgotten Bucky beside him, when Bucky said questioningly, “Is there a… blanket? On that statue of Roosevelt?”

Steve blinked, and it snapped together for him.

They’d knitted a blanket. A blanket the colour of blood. And thrown it over the statue, thus hiding it from view, and while not actually defacing the statue, absolutely calling attention to it.

Steve had turned his head to Bucky, his mouth dropped completely open, and his tiredness forgotten.

_______________________________________

James Buchanan Barnes had almost one hundred years of experience with the facial expressions of one Steve Rogers.

He knew that look.

That look was a ghost.

In front of Bucky sat the ghost of his friend, tiny and frail and fierce as a lion, sparks shooting from his baby blues like he was seconds away from a fight for What’s _Right_ , Bucky.

Bucky pulled out his phone, and dug around in his contacts. He pulled Tara’s email from his “soap mentors” list, and silently handed Steve the phone.

The ghost of Steve Rogers grinned at him.

________________________________________________

So Steve had carefully composed an email. (It only took him two days.)

(Bucky had taken one look at it and snorted. “You don’t gotta be so formal now Stevie, it’s an email, not an invitation to a ball.”

“I’m just being _polite_ Buck- do you think it should be capitalized there? Why are you laughing?”)

Tara had responded in two hours.

_Of course you can join, anyone that Grandma likes is good with me. Next job’s in a week, bring two scarves at least two feet wide and six feet long._ _–Tara_

(By the time the date had rolled around, Steve had made six.)

Steve had gone alone. The meeting was at 3AM, and Bucky had very firmly explained that while he was excited for Steve, one of his favorite things about the future was sleeping. In his bed. Especially at 3AM.

Steve had nervously appeared on the street corner as requested (albeit 20 minutes early) wearing the requested hoodie and dark clothes, with his backpack full of scarves.

At 3AM, a group of kids had suddenly walked up, led by a tiny girl no more than five feet tall wearing mittens with hour glasses on them. She’d looked him up and down, grinned, and handed him a bandana. All the other kids had tied them over their faces, and Steve quickly followed suite.

Then the girl had turned, faced the group, and efficiently divided them up. She’d described their goal and gotten them to set their watches to the same time.

(Steve had almost giggled, watching these teenagers be so serious, when the girl had turned and pinned him with one raised eyebrow and a fierce eye.

Steve had instantly flashed back to a muddy field and Peggy’s excellent left hook.

He’d automatically snapped to attention and only barely avoided saluting.)

And they’d gotten started.

The target that night had been ledges on two buildings in Brooklyn that had been covered in small spikes. Steve had been baffled, until the girl (who by this point Steve had figured out was in fact Tara) had grimly explained that they were to keep the homeless population from using them for sleeping.

They hit twelve ledges, covering them with soft knitted layers. Walking back to the rendezvous point at 4AM, Steve felt more awake than ever.

He shyly asked Tara if he could come back.

She grinned and punched him in the arm.

“We’re hitting the subway stops in two weeks, and we’re gonna need your extra height, Rookie.”

___________________________________

He’d been completely hooked.

It wasn’t every week, it wasn’t even every month necessarily. But every so often, his phone would go off with the special tone he reserved just for Tara.

And Steve would grin, and grab his needles.

______________________________________

At first he had been nervous about the kids in the group – what did they think of some random guy so much older, crashing their party – until he’d gotten to know them.

Tara, of course, tiny and fierce, leading the group with an iron will and a smart mouth.

Grayson, with his cynical streak a mile wide, but who also carefully picked up litter and threw it away.

Sara, who talked freely with Steve about fleeing from Syria the year before, while hanging mittens from trees.

Jacob, who had almost more piercings than blank skin, and who twitched and moved constantly, but could crochet anything.

Maria, who didn’t like to talk much, but who brought the entire group homemade hot chocolate before every mission.

LeBron, who told Steve about working two jobs while in school, supporting his single mom and his younger brother, who he would show pictures of to Steve on his phone.

A unique bunch of kids, who nonetheless stuck together like glue. And after the second mission, stuck to Steve just as fiercely.

(It took a while, but Steve figured out eventually that they actually knew exactly who he was- and just didn’t care. When he’d quietly asked Tara about it, one night after they’d finished up and were getting everyone back home. She’d stared at him, unimpressed.

“Being Captain America isn’t going to improve your moss stitches, Rookie.”

Steve got her point.)

__________________________________

Winding the last scarf around the rail of the Bow Bridge, Steve set off back to the rendezvous point. The empty bag now sat light on his shoulders.

He stretched his arms above his head, not feeling tired in the slightest, but also not feeling the empty buzzing energy that used to fill his body right after he woke up from the ice. Energy that screamed at him to do something, even when he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. When he didn’t even know who he was supposed to _be_.

When he first came back from the ice, he’d felt like an ant in the shadow of the mountain that was Captain America. People had had 70 years to think about him, talk about him, and idolize him.

Everyone remembered Cap.

No one remembered Steve Rogers.

He’d tried, at the beginning, to shove the title off. He’d listened to the new music of the future (he liked the pop music- Sam Smith, Bruno Mars, Halsey. That’s what swing, big band, all of it _was_ back then, just popular music, even if no one believed him). He tried the food (Thai was his favorite). He’d collected dozens of notebooks, writing down every suggestion and idea and thought that anyone gave him. And he tried, he really tried, to speak up as Steve Rogers. To give his own opinions and comment and speak up.

But his team had still given him apple pie and burgers on his birthday. SHIELD had only stocked his apartment with records of swing. And everywhere, news anchors and politicians and anyone with an internet connection had felt free to say they knew what Captain America thought was right. They didn’t ask. They knew.

He’d felt himself fading into the shadow.

He still remembers what he’d said to Natasha on the quinjet when Thor had first appeared to collect his wayward brother.

_There's only one God, ma'am, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that._

Steve grew up the weak and sickly child of a single immigrant mother, who died in the middle of the Depression. He grew up questioning everything, constantly asking _when_ , _how_ , _why_. He was turned into a super soldier by science. He watched his mentor, then countless men on the battlefields, and then his best friend, die in front of him. And then he flew a plane into a field of ice and woke up in the future.

Steve Rogers didn’t believe in anything with half the certainty he had expressed in that statement. Certainly not in God.

He had nightmares, of the uniform sliding silkily over his skin, tightening over his arms, and then wrapping over his eyes and sliding down his throat. And all he could do was scream, until it stole his breath too.

But then-

Learning to knit. Joining the group. Meeting the girls.

Who had only ever treated him like Steve, just Steve.

And then, Bucky. That was enough said, right there.

(It took Steve two months and some bribery involving certain brands of organic oils to convince Bucky to join him. He doesn’t join them every time, but if there’s ever a need for extra muscle or sneakiness, Bucky dons The Hat and helps out.)

And now, this. This small thing he does every couple of weeks with a bunch of teenagers. Actually taking justice into his own hands, making a difference for the little guy.

Not reading lines from the back of his shield, or lecturing a camera, or posing behind a podium delivering sound bites.

Getting out there, _doing_ something. Steve Rogers style.

Steve walked around the bend in the path, and the group came into view at the rendezvous point. They were standing together looking tired but happy.

“Company, fall in!” He called, walking up. The kids laughed, some of them holding out hands for high fives, chattering excitedly about the night. He let their voices wash over them, making eye contact with Bucky over their heads, who winked at him.

Tara wiggled her way over to him, and punched him in the arm.

“Good start, Rookie,” She said, grinning.

It was 4AM, he had a pair of yellow knitted gloves on his hands, and _Steve_ was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be an extra story. It was not supposed to exceed 500 words.  
> Oops.  
> Also, the working title was “Mission Scarfpossible”.
> 
> More to come soon- I've got a few stories I'd like to finish this 'verse off with. Thanks as ever for reading!


	5. Snippets, Scraps, Odds, and Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An in between chapter with all the little stories that I wanted to write, but couldn't figure out how to organize. One more chapter for this verse to come to round things off.

1. 

 

It’s not that Steve and Thor weren’t good together. Not exactly.

They had things in common; they were both born leaders. They had similar fighting styles which favored a focus on offensive strength, rather than subtlety. They even looked similar.

But on the other hand… It was pretty hard to find common ground when one person grew up sickly in the Depression, and the other was literally a perfect Space God.

When they’d first assembled, Steve had tried to make a personal connection with everyone on the team. Sometimes it was easy –Tasha and Clint – sometimes it just took a little time – Bruce – and sometimes it was beyond infuriating – Tony – but he made it in the end.

Thor was the only exception.

Thor: who was exuberant after battles when Steve mostly just wanted to sleep. Who was totally at ease with the press, coming from a lifetime of being idolized in Asgard.

Steve had thought maybe they could bond over 21st century shock, but he quickly realized that what had been amazing novelties to Steve were actually historic relics to Thor. While Steve was constantly confused and thrown off by all of it, Thor seemed to delight in it.

(One particular incident involved the discovery of pop tarts.)

And then Bucky came back, and… well…

Surely no one could blame Steve if he didn’t exactly push for a relationship.

And it didn’t really seem like Thor minded.

You couldn’t be friends with everybody.

________________________________________

The day things changed was a rainy one.

It was a day of interminable meetings. The week before had been particularly bad. There had been several incidents suspiciously clustered together, which had eventually turned out to be the machinations of one very insane geneticist with a penchant for the dramatic. There had been considerable property damage to some (apparently) very important buildings, which meant they had people of serious wealth and status up in arms (or as Fury had called them, “rich shit-for-brains with too much time on their hands). This meant Legal got involved.

After the sixth hour long meeting, he’d been ready to climb the walls.

He’d been off like a shot when Fury had called for a brief recess.

(When he came back to the room later, he’d realized he’d actually broken the armrest of the chair he’d been sitting in, and apparently Clint had owed Tasha $10.)

Normally he would have loved a chance to get outside to clear his head, but it was one of those days where even the rain seemed moody - it wasn’t coming down hard enough to warrant an umbrella, but it was windy enough to send the mist into your face and guarantee every pedestrian would be cranky.

So Steve had found a quiet corner of the main space used by the Avengers and pulled one of his projects out of a nearby knit-hole.

(Steve was never able to work on one project at a time- he had a different project for every mood. So projects ended up everywhere. There was a giant orange scarf half way complete at Janet’s house. A pair of purple gloves in his go-bag. A yellow hat with ear muffs in his SHIELD locker. And the dozen or so odd projects stuffed in various places around his and Bucky’s apartment- in cupboards, under benches, on side tables. And those were the ones Steve remembered.

Clint had come up with the term“knit-hole” after he emerged from a vent one afternoon, very confused, having discovered a half-finished pair of green chevron socks inside. Bucky had been delighted.)

When he fished the project from its bag, he found the skein of yarn in a tangled mess. With a sigh, he settled on a couch next to the window and set to fixing it.

“Could I offer some assistance with this, Steve Rogers?”

Steve almost dropped the yarn. He whipped his head around to find Thor sitting with a glass of water on an armchair next to him.

Thor smiled slightly, and raised his hands. “I did not mean to startle you, my friend.”

“Oh, no,” Steve said. “I was just… focused.” He really must have been annoyed at that meeting if he’d missed the giant Asgardian in the living room.

“You do have impressive focus,” Thor replied. He pointed at the yarn. “If I may?”

Steve looked down at the yarn and then up at Thor again.

 _Couldn’t hurt_ , he thought.

“Sure thing.”

Thor moved over to sit on the couch beside Steve, picking up the yarn in the process. He had it untangled in moments and began wrapping it around his hands so it would unravel easily. He sat with it held carefully in his hands, and motioned for Steve to go ahead.

Steve blinked.

(He was pretty sure he’d remember the image of the God of Thunder sitting on a green couch, sans cape and hammer, with lavender yarn in his hands, for the rest of his life.)

“You’ve… done this before?” He meant it to be a statement, but it came out as a question. He quickly looked down at the project to remember where he’d left off.

Thor chuckled gently beside him.

“With my lady mother. Such skills are highly valued in Asgard. This is a skill practiced mainly among our women, but any may try their hand at it. This was also one of the only ways my mother could have me sit still long enough to spend time with her.”

Steve found his place and started up his needles. For a few moments there was nothing but the sound of the needles clicking and the rain pattering against the window.

Then Thor said, “Loki…” and stopped.

Steve glanced sideways at Thor. He was staring into the middle distance. Steve hummed encouragingly and looked back down at his knitting, trying to convey a listening ear.

“I was never skilled at this… nor did I ever really try to be. I did not have the patience.” Thor said. “Loki…”

He sighed.

“Loki had true talent. He would sit at our mother’s knee for hours when we were small, holding her yarn and asking questions. When we became old enough, she tried to teach us both– and while I gave up after the first hour, Loki picked it up right away. He and my mother would spend hours together in quiet solitude creating.

When he began to learn magic, it was the same. He had such finesse and dexterity. When he learned to knit light…”

Steve looked up, gaping. Thor laughed.

“Oh, yes. It is an ability some truly talented artists possessed in Asgard, but Loki’s skill was far beyond any I knew. He could seemingly blend the lights of the cosmos themselves into a rippling mirage, sparkling and dancing like creation itself.” He smiled fondly at the memory.

“That sounds… incredible,” Steve murmured.

“It was wonderful.” Thor replied, then his face saddened. He sighed again, lapsing into silence.

Steve started knitting again, thinking.

They’d fought against Loki and won. And that had been good. Thor would certainly agree that that had been good and necessary.

But it occurred to Steve that not many people remembered that Thor had been fighting his brother.

His brother who had certainly not been in his right mind.

But they had both suffered.

When the ones you loved suffered, you suffered as well.

Steve stilled his hands. He turned more fully to Thor, who looked at him questioningly.

“Bucky is… the worst knitter.” Steve said.

Bemused, Thor raised an eyebrow at him.

“I only ever tried to teach him once, and it went badly,” Steve continued. “If you’d be interested… I could try to teach you some? And you could tell me more about how Loki knit light. I mean… if you would be interested?”

A smile, huge and bright, bloomed across Thor’s face.

“I would be honoured, Steve Rogers.”

 

(Bucky makes him a bar of citrus soap. In rainbow colours.)

 

 

2.

 

Bucky came home from Ruthie’s one day to find Steve sitting on the couch in the living room, looking slightly pale.

“Steve?” he asked. “What’s going on? Are you ok?”

Steve pointed towards the kitchen, from where Bucky could hear voices.

Baffled, Bucky walked through their living room and into the kitchen, where he stopped dead in the doorway.

There were papers spread across the entire surface of the table, ranging from diagrams, maps, and blueprints, as well as what looked like codes in several different languages. There were several books, a scale model of what looked like an important building in Manhattan. The wall to the right of the table was covered in pictures, more diagrams, and hand written lists. Everything was tied together by red yarn.

Natasha was spooning a scoop of jam into a delicate blue mug (one of her own make, Bucky noted distantly). Tara was sitting across from her, her own mug in one hand, writing notes into a notebook.

They both looked up at Bucky, and raised their eyebrows in unison.

Bucky gulped.

Natasha turned back to Tara, and continued with what she was saying.

“Now of course, you always want to aim for the most sensitive area of the organization, which… ”

Bucky sidled quietly out of the room.

“…Wanna take a walk, Stevie?”

“Yes please.”

 

3.

 

Most of Steve's art from before the war isn't actually in his possession - it's either in a museum, or held by private collectors. Anything from modern times is even more preciously guarded by the few that possessed any, with only a few pieces known to be in existence. All of it fetches an impressive price, and it is widely understood in the artistic community that a Steve Rogers original is a rare thing indeed; something that will elevate the status of your collection. A thing to be cherished and usually, never shown off.

Steve thinks it's the most ridiculous thing about the new century.

Because as anyone that knows him knows, a modern Steve Rogers creation is actually about as expensive and rare as your average ball of yarn.

And that would be because Steve gives his knitwear to _everyone_.

It started when Steve got into knitting.

He'd finished three small squares of light blue yarn and realized that he wasn't sure exactly what to do with them.

Impulsively, when Natasha had come by his apartment later that afternoon to go over some files, he'd given them to her.

“What exactly are they, Rogers?” She'd asked, turning them over and looking at the edges.

“…Dish towels, I guess?” he’d answered, after thinking for a moment.

She'd looked at them for a moment, running her hands over the slightly uneven rows, then looked back up at him, an almost shy smile playing around her lips.

“No-one’s ever given me dish towels before. Thanks, Steve. I love them.”

The heady rush he’d gotten from her happiness with the towels had been the best thing he'd felt all since he’d come back from the ice.

So two weeks later, he’d shyly given Clint his next project – a purple scarf.

Clint wore it to the next three Avengers press conferences. When asked about the choice by a curious reporter, he’d grinned and said it was an original piece that a friend had made him, and “the nicest thing I own”.

Steve had blushed to the roots of his hair, he was so touched (and hadn’t that picture made the rounds in the tabloids – along with several ‘Stint’ rumours).

So it became a thing.

He gave Bruce a teal scarf with tasseled ends.

Thor got yellow socks.

Maria Hill got his first hat, Fury got a cell phone holder, and Coulson got socks of red, white, and blue. (Steve was slightly worried he’d do something like put them in a glass case. A week later, he received an email with an attached photo from Maria. He was delighted to see a picture of Coulson, clearly taken from a hidden camera. He was talking with an intern, and you could see the socks peeking out from his shoes. The intern was staring at them with obvious incredulity.)

He made Pepper fuzzy purple mittens (she'd teared up, to which he’d almost panicked and upset a house plant).

Tony got gloves with a chevron pattern, after he complained his work gloves were falling apart. (He'd been flabbergasted, and then immediately spent 20 hours in the lab trying to figure out if you could make yarn with carbon fibre).

Within three weeks of meeting Sam, Sam received a hat, a pair of mittens, and a sweat band. (When he'd presented the sweat band, Sam had smacked him on the arm while Steve snickered.

“Jokes on you, asshole,” he'd said the next morning, when they met up for their run. “I make these look _good_.”

Steve has to admit he's right, and clearly so do several people that they run past.)

And then, Bucky.

Initially when Bucky comes back to him, he puts his knitting on hold. There's too much to do – debriefs at the new SHIELD, press conferences, and frantic team meetings. All of which paled in comparison with the work they had in front of them to help Bucky recover (not that Steve minded, ever. The minor SHIELD agent that suggests, the fifth day after Bucky comes back, that he be brought to SHIELD to let them take care of his recovery almost gets thrown out a window – the chair Steve was standing behind was not so lucky).

They move to the Tower initially – Bucky was in a fairly bad place physically when he came back, and Steve was relieved when Tony insisted they not try to handle things from Steve's apartment in Brooklyn. Not to mention the security measures. Steve knew he’d sleep better with them both under Jarvis’ watchful eye.

The night Steve picks it up again was a bad one. Bucky had finally allowed Bruce and Tony a look at the inner workings of his arm, so they could be sure it didn't have any nasty surprises. He'd needed to be heavily sedated with Asgardian medicine during the procedure. Steve was assured time and time again that he'd be fine and would wake up in a few hours, but seeing Bucky out cold in the hospital bed had almost sent him into a panic attack.

Desperately needing something to calm himself down, he'd dug an old, half-finished project of mittens from his bag and set to with determination. He focused on the soothing rhythm of knitting, purling, and casting off until it lulled him into an almost meditative state.

He looked up, what could have been hours later, to find Bucky staring at him with sleepy eyes. Steve had let his hands fall still, and Bucky's gaze had drifted down to them.

“S’nice.” He'd mumbled.

“What's that, Buck?” Steve had replied, feeling confused.

Bucky had waved a drugged finger towards Steve's hands.

“That. S'nice, listening to it.”

Steve blinked, and looked down at his needles. Then he picked them up, and started again where he left off.

A ghost of what might have been a smile drifted across Bucky's face, before he fell asleep again.

Steve had finished the mittens, and started a pair of socks without stopping.

And then when he’d given his first project to Bucky, _well_.

He didn’t think he’d ever feel more content than when he watched him carefully run his hands over the grey mittens, and then wonderingly put them on. He watched him rub them across rough stubble on his cheeks. His smile was like a sunrise– slow to grow, but devastating in completion. Steve could only smile back helplessly, and pick up his needles right away.

Steve got faster and faster, super soldier abilities to learn and perfectionism taking over as usual. Then he met the dames, and the knitting only grew in volume. He and Janet started meeting up every week to swap patterns, and he quickly started receiving projects in return (“Hazard of being friends with knitters,” Janet had said with a grin. “But you’ll certainly never want for warm socks.”)

It became apparent eventually that they had more knitwear than they knew what to do with (even _they_ couldn’t go through 24 pairs of wool socks).

So Steve branched out.

Anyone that allied with the Avengers more than once was eventually gifted with whatever Steve was working on at the time. It became a mark of the end of a successful mission. Steve would hand over whatever project he had finished to someone on the team (T’Challa took his slippers with great dignity but a certain amount of confusion. Later, he sent Steve a picture of Shuri wearing them in her lab. Steve sends him a matching pair for . She sent back a ball of strange silver yarn – he didn’t figure out what it was until he showed it to Tony off hand, who proceeded to turn an impressive grey colour.)

Tara and her crew got matching bandanas, which they began to wear as a uniform. Tara later tells him with great delight that he helped bump up their exposure online, showing him an interview she did with a local paper.

Support staff at SHIELD got gifted socks or mittens after they interacted with him for longer than two weeks (he was mortified when, after he gave a particularly bright intern leg warmers, he cried on him. Two weeks later, he gets a video of said intern wearing them in a dance recital).

It doesn’t end there.

Their favourite pizza delivery guy, Larry, gets a purple neck warmer after he delivered their order in a blizzard.

The main barista at the closest coffee shop to SHIELD, Isobel, gets striped blue and white beanie because she always put extra whipped cream on Bucky’s mochas and didn’t mind if Steve tracked mud/dirt/slime/other alien byproducts across the floors.

The guy at the 24 hour corner store closest to their apartment, Matt – well, they actually got into something of (what Bucky called, anyways) a gift war with him.  Steve brought him a pale green lace stitched knit scarf after several weeks of conversations. Three days later, the next time they come in, Matt calmly handed them a gigantic Tupperware of double chocolate red wine cookies (they last two days). Bucky immediately made him a batch of lemon-rosemary soap, after discovering he loved citrus. Matt made them hand-dyed tshirts. Steve’s current project was a Captain America sock monkey. He’s not sure how you score gifts, but he’s determined to win.

Despite all of this, there’s still extras. These Steve decided to start taking to the local VA, and they distribute them to veterans on the streets.

One afternoon, while Bucky worked on his latest batch of soap (green tea and rose petal) and Steve practiced his moss stitch, he presented it like a metaphor.

“It’s like life,” he mused, needles busily clicking away. “To start, it’s tangled and pretty useless. But if you work hard and put in the effort to learn, you get something soft and useful.”

He looked at Bucky expectantly. Bucky stopped stirring for a moment and turned to face him directly.

“I think,” Bucky said deliberately, “You’re full of shit.”

Steve scowled at him.

“But,” Bucky continues, “I really liked that grey argyle cardigan. And my old one is getting holes in it…”

Steve rolled his eyes, put down his project, and reached for the grey yarn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I can't believe I completely forgot to include Thor, here have a Thor centric story
> 
> 2) Of course Tara and Natasha are going to take over the world. Also, jam in tea is a Russian tea thing. 
> 
> 3) Of course Steve goes completely over the top and starts churning out knitting like nobodies business. Also, blatant shout out to my best friend/partner in crime.


	6. Tails and Tchotchkes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending, for now, in two parts. 
> 
> "The home is the center and circumference, the start and the finish, of most of our lives."
> 
> \- Charlotte Perkins Gilman

1.

From time to time, Bucky wonders how often people get pets accidentally.

  
Two months after they move into the house, Janet’s next door neighbor suddenly passes away. Knowing they were close friends, Steve decides to bring her tea roses (her favourite) to cheer her up.

  
Bucky expects him to come back with a new knitting pattern, or possibly cookies.

  
He does not expect an elderly yellow Lab.

  
Steve turns those big blue eyes on him and spins the story in his most sugar-sweet-aw-Buck-c’mon-just-go-for it voice. Janet’s neighbour had been all alone, just him and this dog. They were best friends; he’d raised her from a puppy. His daughter couldn’t take her right away; she was in the process of moving herself with a two year old in tow. Couldn’t they just take it for a few weeks?Just for a little while Buck, what’s the harm?

  
(Later he discovers that Janet was the one to devise how to phrase the story. That’s his excuse for why it worked, anyways. Definitely not Steve’s baby blues combined with big sad brown ones closer to the floor. Definitely not.)

  
“Three weeks, Stevie,” Bucky lectures, “Then she’ll go with her family. We got no plans for a dog.”

  
The warmth of Steve’s grin could melt an iceberg.

  
The dog’s name, it turns out, is Ella (“After Ella Fitzgerald, Buck! Look, she’ll fit right in.” “…Sure, Steve.”). She’s big and sweet and old, and at first, clearly very sad. It takes them three days to get her to eat anything (not that Bucky was worried, or anything). She spends a lot of time perking up when the doorbell rings, and then drooping down again when she sees who is at the door.

  
Eventually she starts to come around. She follows Steve around the house, ambling after him, collapsing comfortably to the floor with a wuff every time he stops. She never begs, but she will look at them beseechingly when they’re cleaning the plates at the end of a meal.

  
(“Old man must have been a pushover,” Bucky grumbles. “Feeding her from his plate or something.”  
Steve watches Bucky feed her bacon from the pan the next morning, and tactfully says nothing.)

  
The first day, Bucky suggests that they should probably set some rules. Seeing as she’ll only be around for three weeks.

  
Number one: no sleeping on the bed with them.  
That lasts three days.  
(“She keeps my feet warm.” “Sure, Buck.”)  
Number two: no buying toys.  
That lasts five days.  
(“Playing tug-of-war is good physio for me.” “…Sure, Buck.”)  
Number three: they don’t let anyone know about her.  
That lasts under 48 hours.  
(Granted, that has less to do with anything they do, and more to do with the fact that they’re pretty sure Clint has some kind of dog radar. But he brings treats every time he visits, so it works out.)

  
Slowly but surely, she worms her way into their lives.

  
They discover her favourite place to nap is in the warm patches of sun on the porch, and that she makes an excellent pillow if you decide to join her (she doesn’t seem to mind too much). She takes walks with Bucky and Steve around the neighborhood (singlehandedly helping them meet more neighbors than they ever expected). She covers most of their possessions with a fine layer of hair, which Steve happily brushes off everything and then vacuums up.

  
She doesn’t demand attention, but she does know exactly how to place to be within arm’s reach – just in case someone would maybe want to pet her. (“Look at this Stevie, if you rub her ears the right way she closes her eyes.” “That’s great, Buck.”)

  
Steve fills a sketch book with drawings of her. Bucky bathes her once a week with a special dog-friendly soap he makes, ostensibly so she won’t smell, but really because she clearly loves baths.

  
The suddenly, it’s been three weeks. And the daughter is coming for her tomorrow.

  
The next morning, they gather up all her things in silence and wait for the daughter to arrive. Ella is unhappy as well, whining quietly and looking at them in confusion. Bucky can’t look at Steve because he knows he’ll see the exact same emotion he’s feeling; his heart is already breaking.

  
The daughter arrives around half past nine. She seems like a nice woman. She’s a first grade teacher at a school in Queens, and has a lovely new house with a big yard.

  
They listen politely to all of this, trying to be happy knowing Ella will be going to a good place. She’ll be well taken care of by people who planned on having a dog.

  
At the end of the conversation Bucky woodenly hands over the leash.

  
He can’t look at Ella, but he can hear her whining quietly.

  
Then Steve says, “Wait.” He goes into the den, and comes back with her blanket. Quietly, he hands it to the woman.

  
“We… wouldn’t want her not to have her blankie. Just in case, you know, she misses… it.” He says.

  
His voice breaks a little at the end.

  
Bucky stares fixedly at the ceiling, trying to ignore the moisture building in his eyes.

  
There’s a pause.

  
The daughter looks down at Ella, and then up at Steve and Bucky, with a considering look in her eye.

  
“You know…” She says slowly, “I love my boy, but he’s a bit of a handful right now.”

  
Bucky unglues his eyes from the ceiling at the non-sequitur and furrows his brow.

  
“It’s just…he’s two, y’know? I don’t think he goes anywhere at less than a run. And the things he gets into… I’m just not sure if Ella would be... Comfortable? With us. She’s pretty old. And she gets tired.”

  
Steve and Bucky stand very still.

  
“I’m not sure if you guys would be interested in keeping her? She just seems so happy here.”

  
“Oh,” Steve says, “Yeah, we could… probably do that.”

  
The daughter smiles, and hands the leash back to Steve. She doesn’t miss the way his hands go white-knuckle on the strap once it’s in his hands, and her smile only grows bigger.  
The daughter thanks them, and tells them she’d better be going. She gives them her email so they can send pictures, and leaves.

  
She’s gone for all of thirty seconds when Bucky melts to the floor, wrapping his arms around Ella, Steve sinking down to join them immediately.

  
Ella wuffs and gives them a look that says: “You didn’t really think you were going to get rid of me that easily, did you?”

  
___________________________________

  
Now the cat? The cat really was an accident. 

Because at first, it’s not really their cat – it’s Ella’s.

  
They’ve had Ella for all of two months the night they meet him.

  
It’s raining sideways, mud is sloshing over his shoes, and Bucky is cursing his offer to let Steve snuggle in front of the fire engrossed in his latest knitting project (an orange bandana for Ella, to match The Hat).

  
They’re about halfway home when Ella perks up her head and starts dragging Bucky towards an alley. He goes, confused more than anything, because he can count the number of times Ella’s done anything but heel perfectly on a walk on one hand.

  
It’s not until they get to a garbage can that Bucky hears the yowling.

  
He opens the lid to reveal a furry lump with bright yellow eyes glaring daggers at him. The yowling turns into hissing as they stare at each other.

  
Bucky considers leaving it be (he’s only mostly sure it’s a cat, and not some kind of garbage demon-raccoon hybrid). But then Ella carefully bounces herself up to put her front paws on the rim of the garbage can, and leans in to sniff at the cat.

  
It quiets instantly, allowing itself to be sniffed, and then licked.

  
Ella looks up at him, and Bucky recognizes that look. It’s a look they learned very quickly. It’s Ella’s patented you-love-me-don’t-you look.

  
Bucky sighs.

  
He carries the cat home wrapped up in his jacket under his metal arm. It took him ten seconds to realize that there was no way he’d survive carrying it home any other way.

  
They carefully clean him – as best they can figure, it is a him – off in the bathroom. He protests loudly the entire time. They’re pretty sure the only reason they survive with their skin intact is because he’s clearly been through a lot, and is too weak to fight them off. He’s a mangy, half-starved thing – missing an eye, a chunk gone from his ear, a wonky tail, and a coat the colour (and frankly, texture) of dirt.

  
Ella supervises the entire process. When they’re done, she reaches into the tub, takes the cat by the scruff of his neck, and walks them both down to her blanket in the den. She wraps herself around him and settles down, so only the cat’s head is visible.  
The cat snuggles in, and purrs in a way that somehow sounds angry.

  
Bucky and Steve watch, nonplussed.

  
“Did our dog just adopt the angriest cat I’ve ever met?” Steve asks, after a moment.

  
“Yep,” Bucky replies.

  
“Guess I’ll go open some tuna, then.”

  
At first, the only thing Bucky could compare it to would be getting a new roommate (he guesses. He’s never actually had a roommate, but hey, he’s a modern guy now. He’s seen movies).

  
The cat clearly loves Ella. They snuggle together in warm patches of sunlight. He shares Ella’s water dish. He follows Ella around, room to room (which makes for an interesting parade, seeing as Ella still follows Steve around.) But he seems to only tolerate Bucky and Steve.

  
He doesn’t bite or scratch them unwarrantedly (which they discover the only time Steve tries to pick him up). But he avoids them – only staying in the room if Ella is there. When they put food out, he darts in, eats quickly, and leaves. He avoids their hands entirely.

  
Ella meanwhile, is overjoyed, if confused. She shepherds him around the house, trying to herd him towards Steve and Bucky, without success. She obviously loves him right back.  
So they decide to make the best of it and leave him be. Or at least they do, once they talk to Ruthie about it (she’s had eight cats over the course of her life, as well as dogs).  
“Sometimes cats are just like that, my dears,” She says. “Give him time.”

  
So things continue like that for a while. It doesn’t really occur to them to give him a name – he still doesn’t really feel like their cat. They often refer to him as “the roommate”.

  
(Steve swears Ella looks at them disapprovingly when they do that.)

  
Things change one cold night in the middle of winter.

  
A freak blizzard blows in one afternoon, shutting New York down to a standstill (later revealed to be the result an incident between Thor and a particularly mean Frost Giant). Steve gets stuck at the Tower, and Ella is with him because he’d brought her to the vet that morning (and then to the Tower to show off. As yet, they hadn’t met anyone at SHIELD she couldn’t win over. Fury made her a badge). 

That was bad enough; then the power went out.

  
Bucky hates the cold. It brings back far too many disjointed memories of the moments before the cryo hit. It reminds him of the feel of ice creeping up his arms and legs, just before it stole his breath and his mind went black. He avoids it as much as possible – the heat is always turned way up in the winter, and Steve’s knitting does a great job at keeping him cozy normally. So does Steve himself, obviously. They keep lots of lights on and Bucky usually makes it through the winter without too much trouble.

  
But now the power is out, it’s getting dark, and Steve isn’t there.

  
He ends up sitting in front of the fire, surrounded by several candles and wrapped in a thick blanket. But fires don’t start immediately, and as he’s trying his best to gently coax the fire to grow amid the logs, he can feel his fingers and toes getting cold and clumsy.

  
He tries not to think about it, but his breath is shortening and he can feel tears starting to prick at the corner of his eyes, and he hates this, he hates this so much –

  
And suddenly, there’s movement from the corner of his eye.

  
Bucky almost has a heart attack, but then he realizes it’s the cat. He assumes he must be cold too, and starts to try to wiggle over so there’s enough space for them both in front of the fire.

  
And then freezes immediately, when the cat grumbles over to him and plops himself on Bucky’s lap, snuggling into him and kneading his legs. He’s gained a fair amount of weight by then, which has turned him into a veritable furry brick.

  
The combination of the weight and warmth of another body directly on his midsection slowly sinks into his awareness. He carefully puts one hand on the cats back, and feels him purring like a broken car engine. He tries to match his breathing to the purring, and slowly, he feels himself calm down. The fire starts to catch, and he feels himself starting to relax.

  
They sit just like that until Steve comes home. The cat makes himself scarce again almost immediately, but Bucky doesn’t mind.

  
He puts some salmon in his bowl, and christens him Dodger.

  
It’s after this that they realize that it isn’t that Dodger hates them – he just isn’t cuddly.  
Until you were having a bad day, that is.  
Eventually, everyone that visits the house notices. He stays away from everyone, unless they were clearly not well or unhappy, and then he was right there with them. Bucky will forever cherish the memory of Maria Hill with one arm in a sling and sporting a brilliant black eye, looking dumbfounded as Dodger angrily kneaded his paws in her lap at the kitchen table.

  
He never becomes the friendliest of cats, but he is definitely more than their roommate.

He’s a weird cat. And, as Bucky watches Dodger headbutt Steve in the shin, before settling into the chair across the room, he realizes they wouldn’t have it any other way.

2.

It takes a while, but Bucky and Steve figure out why they’re always having guests.

  
They’d moved out of their apartment six months prior, when they’d realized the craft room had started to eat the rest of the apartment. (And they hadn’t really minded that, until they’d realized that the only available surface in the apartment was the bed– and as much as they enjoyed spending time in there, it wasn’t like they could bring guests home there. Also, Bucky accidentally sat on several knitting needles.)

  
They found an old, semi-detached house in the east end of Brooklyn that had clearly been divided up into several apartments at one point. They got it fairly cheap due to it being the recent victim of a slime monster attack that had moved farther east than anticipated, making it a real fixer-upper (Steve ends up insisting they give the exact asking price, arguing down the realtor, who had looked horrified. The owners sent him cupcakes as a thank you).

  
They tackle a lot of the renovations themselves. They’re not bad at fixing things –there was no replacing something with a new version during the Depression – and what they don’t know, they Google. With the exception of a few projects, like a faulty load bearing wall, they do everything themselves. After they knock down a few walls, open some doorways, and clear out the detritus of several old apartments, they end up with five bedrooms and three bathrooms, which suits them just fine. All the “dames” come over the first week, to help decide paint colours and select furniture and basically pass on years of experience in homemaking, which Steve and Bucky are incredibly grateful for (“Thank god,” Bucky whispers to Steve, as they watch Ruthie and Janet point and note and generally supervise things, “I thought crown molding was something to do with your teeth.”).

  
They’ve been there for a month, when one Tuesday around 11PM, Bucky sits upright on the couch and turns the record player off. 

Stevelooks at him in confusion, until he hears it as well – muffled thumps, and then a groan, coming from the direction of the front door.

  
Silently, they move to the door. Steve stands behind, shield at the ready, as Bucky creeps up to the door, one long throwing knife in hand (and several more stashed on his person, of course). He tilts his ear towards the door for a moment, and another groan comes through the wood.

  
Bucky snorts, and yanks the door open. Clint falls through.

  
He’s covered in bruises and cuts, but once they get him set up at the kitchen table and start patching him up, they confirm that he won that particular fight (there was a bar and some insults about a lady involved) and just didn’t want to drag himself all the way back to Bed-Stuy.

  
Clint seems surprised to find they have not one guest bedroom, but two, and confusedly allows himself to be ushered into the one with lavender walls. He seems even more baffled when Bucky hands him some towels and sleep pants, shows him how the shower in the guest bathroom works, and points out the lavender-basil soap.

  
The next morning he comes downstairs to their bright kitchen with yellow walls and is promptly handed coffee and a bagel with lox. After waking up more, he thanks them and wanders out.

  
A few weeks later, he comes by with coffee cake, whiskey, and a door mat that reads “COME BACK WITH A WARRANT” on it. They break out the Asgardian mead and stumble to bed around 3AM.

  
After that, Clint drops by every few weeks. He always stays in the lavender room.

  
Steve brings Natasha back to the house for coffee after a long battle against a very mad scientist. He gets her settled on the couch in the den under the periwinkle blanket, builds up a nice fire in the grate, and makes them both coffee from the French press. When Bucky comes home hours later, he finds them both passed out on the couch and armchair respectively. When Natasha wakes up several hours later, she examines the couch with what Bucky can only describe as a predatory eye.

  
When she visits a few days later, she brings black tea, a samovar, jam, and a teapot with four matching mugs of cloudy blue clay. They exactly match the accents in the kitchen.  
She and Steve have tea at least once a week, and she has her own blanket for the couch- a yellow, blue, and purple checkered quilt.

  
In the summer, Steve brings Bruce over for lunch. He deposits Bruce in the kitchen to wait while he takes Ella on a quick walk, but when he comes back, Bruce is nowhere to be found– until he eventually goes to the back yard, where he finds Bruce and Bucky sitting under the oak tree in total silence, listening to the birds chirp and the insects buzz.

The next time he sees Steve, Bruce gives him several bags of seeds, and asks him if he’s planning on doing anything with the old garden. Two hours later finds them both in the dirt, Bruce happily explaining what was weeds and what was perennials. Bucky brings them mason jars with blueberry-basil lemonade (he still can’t cook worth a damn, but summer drinks – those he can do) and they eat dinner on the grass, sitting on an old blanket, under the glow of the outdoor lights Steve strung in some of the bushes and around the trunk of the oak tree.

  
Bruce and Bucky regularly spend afternoons together, either working on the garden or just sitting meditatively in the grass outside. Bruce keeps a pair of gardening gloves and a trowel in their garage. Around midsummer, they start to draw up plans for a greenhouse. He laughs for ten minutes straight when Bucky gifts him with a cap with the slogan “GREEN THUMB” on it.

  
Thor only comes into town sporadically, as he becomes more embroiled in the politics and responsibilities of ruling Asgard. One afternoon he seems particularly tired, and admits to Steve that he finds it difficult to relax in the royal palace. There’s always someone that needs him for something. Steve brings him back to the house, and they spend the afternoon knitting in the living room in total silence.

  
Thor comes back the next month with an elaborate tapestry, just the right size and colour for the office. He spends the night in the teal guest room, and in the morning, he makes them waffles with fresh fruit.

  
He stays in the teal guest room every time he visits Earth. He brings them Asgardian mead by the cask, which they keep in the cellar with the home made jams that Janet sends them.

  
On the other hand, getting Tony out to Brooklyn took some effort. He had understood them wanting more space, but he had not necessarily understood wanting to live in a house in Brooklyn. He does, however, gift them an expensive set of glassware, and clearly assumes that would be it.

  
That was, until July 4th, when Steve asks him to come to the house for a barbeque.

  
Bucky almost laughs in his face when Tony arrives in the backyard. He takes in the long table surrounded by an assortment of outdoor chairs, loaded with food and lined with decorative lanterns, with a clear look of shock. He looks even more baffled when Bucky nonchalantly hands him a local craft beer. That is until Natasha takes pity on him and drags him over to chat with she and Sam around the fire pit.

  
Bucky actually laughs in his face when he asks him to help him shuck corn corn-on-the-cob, and Tony sputters that he doesn’t know how.

  
He stops laughing, a few hours later, when Tony tells him (beer-honest) that he doesn’t really know what it’s like to fill a home with things you love, for the people you love. He just fills his with expensive things, the way he was taught, like a good little rich boy. But he likes this better, he thinks… maybe. (And thinks to himself that Pepper might, too.)

  
(Two days later, a package shows up in Tony’s lab – knitted tea cozies, with the specific instructions to put them under his coffee mugs. Tony scoffs, but puts them carefully on his desk next to his first arc reactor.)

  
Tony doesn’t drop in often, but every once in a while, Steve shows up with him in tow and they have dinner together – usually pizza from a local place called A Slice of Heaven, which Tony admits is some of the best he’s ever tried. He fixes their Wi-Fi and brings them boutique popcorn, which they drown in butter and chocolate candies and eat while watching trashy movies Tony insists they’ll like (and surprisingly, they usually do – although maybe not surprisingly, given Bucky’s lifelong interest in science and therefore rapt attention to any sci-fi Tony recommends, which is a lot. Steve falls asleep on the couch sometimes, but doesn’t mind.)

  
Sam, of course, comes up whenever he can from D.C. He not only has his own coffee mug there, but his own pillow for the lavender room, his own shampoo in the bathroom (“I’m not taking the time to explain black people’s hair to you guys, Google it”), and his own slippers in the hall closet. He lets Steve drag him on runs around the neighborhood, and helps Bucky learn how to brew beer in the cellar. He claims that they must have done some weird science magic in the lavender room, because somehow he never sleeps better than when he’s there.

  
After a year, Steve and Bucky realize there’s at least one guest in the house almost every day or night. Wanda drops in (try) to play with Dodger, while Pietro reads a book on the couch. Peter and Kamala do their homework on the front porch under Bucky’s watchful eye. Scott will make cookies and fall asleep in an arm chair. Maria Hill and Phil Coulson bring tea and borrow the kitchen table to fill out paperwork. Fury brings Ella homemade dog treats and stays for dinner.

  
They try to figure out what exactly it is, that seems to make the place so appealing to everyone.

  
Steve thinks it might be the comfort factor. The huge green couch, which seems to tempt a nap out of anyone that sits on it for more than five minutes. The fluffy quilts on the beds. The shade of the trees in the yard. The hearth in the winter. The rugs on the floors. The huge (super soldier sized) bath tubs.

  
Bucky thinks it’s the style of the place. The stained glass picture windows in the den. The succulents lining the windowsill in the kitchen. The rocking chairs on the porch. The scented candles in all the rooms. The fresh flowers on the kitchen table. The warm wooden floors. The profanity-themed embroideries on the walls (After Steve gets arrested one day for punching a white supremacist at a gun control rally, they get two as gifts. One from Tara, that reads “SENIOR CITIZENS FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE” and one from Ruthie that reads “KISS MY STAR SPANGLED ASS”. They’re both prominently displayed in the entrance hallway). The fresh coffee from the French press. The window seat in the office. The hanging plants in the den. The wind chimes hanging in the oak tree. The chalkboard paint in the kitchen (on which they write grocery lists, reminders, and to do lists. And on which Steve fills in the edges with doodles and Bucky writes scraps of poetry and which becomes an unofficial message board for everyone else). The floor-to-ceiling book cases. The ivy starting to twine its way up the chimney. The collection of mis-matched dishware they’ve collected from yard sales and flea markets.

  
When Ruthie visits next, they tell her their theories over tea on the back porch. She hums, thinking it over as they watch a few butterflies float across the backyard where Bruce and LeBron are weeding the garden. Some banging escapes from the kitchen where Tara and her girlfriend are helping Clint start dinner (under Natasha’s supervision).

  
“I think,” She says, “It’s not quite either of those.”

  
Bucky and Steve look at each other, and then back at her.

  
She smiles at them.

  
“I think it’s just because… because this is home, my dears.”

  
Steve takes Bucky’s hand.

  
“Yeah… yeah, it definitely is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this has been one wild ride – I actually started this two years ago now, incredibly bored at work and needing to kill some time. My thanks goes first to DowagerEmpress, incredible beta and writer extraordinaire in their own right. Thanks for reading like ten iterations of the same thing and not yelling at me too much for using “a few” three times in a row.  
> And my eternal thanks goes to all of you guys for reading – seriously, you have all been the best audience and absolutely the reason for the length of this fic. When it got reccomended on The Stucky Library, I cried. So seriously – thanks so much.
> 
> This is the last chapter for now, but don’t be surprised if that changes someday – this sucker produces plot bunnies like nobody’s business and I’d be very surprised if this was the end. 
> 
> Thanks folks :)


	7. 12 Days of Craftmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a very merry Christmas with Steve and Bucky as they navigate the holiday in their new home, with, of course, as many crafts as possible.

1.

 

Bucky knew the first Christmas in their new home in Brooklyn would be different. Last Christmas, Bucky spent most of the season hiding in Steve’s apartment, while Steve pretended to follow up Winter Soldier leads in Uruguay. Their Christmas dinner was fried chicken eaten out of the carton in the windowless back room, where Bucky felt safest.

 

This year, Bucky was well on the way to recovery. He had found a good balance between hiding himself away and being out in the world.

 

(Steve would usually comment something about his looking like “the biggest hipster in Brooklyn” helping the mission to blend in, to which Bucky usually rolled his eyes and pointed out Steve’s own tendencies towards a uniform of beanies, sweaters, and Blundstones.)

 

Bucky had friends like Ruthie that he saw regularly; He had family in Ella and Dodger and Steve; he had hobbies and interests and a _life_ now.

 

What Bucky didn't consider was _how_ exactly Christmas would be different as a result.

 

Afterwards he decides he really should have seen it coming.

 

Of course, it starts with the house.

 

The day after Thanksgiving, they’re taking Ella for her evening walk when they notice a neighbor down the street setting out boxes on his front lawn. By the time they come back an hour later, his front yard has been covered with blow up decorations of Santa, reindeer, and presents.

 

Bucky stopped dead, and gestured emphatically at it, looking at Steve with consternation.

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah I know, right? I guess it’s a thing now for people to go crazy and put up all that stuff. Supposed to be festive.”

 

Bucky had nodded, adding it to the pile of “weird 21st Century crap”, and promptly forgotten about it.

 

Over the next week or so, more and more of their neighbors had put up decorations. They’d ranged from coloured lights, to wreaths, to more of those blown up creatures.

 

Steve had scoffed, grumbling about “clutter” and “no sense of colour and placement”.

 

They’d pretty much put the decorations entirely out of their heads, when the first snow fell.

 

Bucky had been feeling a bit blue. Cold weather always set him back, probably always would. He cuddled the cat and Steve, sat in front of the fireplace with some tea and a book, and tried to keep his mind off of thoughts of tanks and frost. The first real day of winter would always be hard, he thought.

 

After dinner, Steve got up to take Ella for her walk. He brought her by Bucky’s spot on the couch to show off her new booties, trying to coax a smile out of Bucky.

 

Bucky’s lips lifted momentarily, and then fell again. He pulled himself back under the blankets.

 

Steve sighed and dropped a kiss on the top of his head, running a hand over Bucky’s hair. Bucky leaned into the hand for a moment, and then waved towards the front door.

 

“Go on,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Steve still had that wrinkle in the center of his brow, so Bucky reached up and smoothed it away.

 

“I’m fine,” he said quietly. “Go.”

 

Steve managed a small smile, looking less worried. He walked out of the room, and Bucky half listened to the sounds of him getting Ella ready for the walk, trying to reabsorb back into in his book. He heard the door open.

 

It took a couple beats before Bucky realized he never heard the door close again.

 

Bucky leaned back, trying to see into the hallway.

 

“Stevie?” he called.

 

More silence.

 

Then, just as Bucky was about to try and unearth himself from the blankets, Steve came barreling back into the room.

 

His cheeks were red and there was snow frosting the ends of his hair (of course he didn’t wear a hat, that would be _sensible_ ). But it was his expression that drew Bucky’s attention.

 

He looked like he’d been slapped in the face. His eyes were shining so brightly they almost glowed.

 

Wordlessly, he stumbled forward and proceeded to drag Bucky out of the nest of blankets. He then started hauling him into his jacket and boots, ignoring all of Bucky’s protestations about the cold.

 

Finally, he yanked the door open, and practically shoved Bucky out onto the front stoop.

 

“Jesus, Rogers, usually I don’t have to worry about you _not_ talking—“

 

The words died on his lips as he finally got a good look around.

 

All around them, snow was drifting gently to the ground. A few inches had already managed to pile up. But that wasn’t what had caught his attention.

 

It was everything else.

 

All the lights they’d seen being put up, that they’d scoffed so hard at, were gently glowing through a fine layer of powder. It turned the irritating glare into something softer and magical-- closer to candlelight. Frost adorned the various wreaths and garlands like jewels. All the usual noise in the neighborhood was muted, a gentle quiet descending like pure grace.

 

It was one of the most enchanting things Bucky had ever seen.

 

He turned slowly, taking in all the details of the street, all the different elements of each home.

 

Finally, he turned to face Steve.

 

Steve, who was openly grinning at him, delighted in Bucky’s happiness.

 

However, he also had a manic look in his eye, one that Bucky would know anywhere.

 

Bucky leaned forward and took Ella’s leash, tugging gently to bring her over to him.

 

Steve raised an eyebrow, but his eyes kept darting back to the street.

 

Bucky smirked.

 

“Car keys are in the bowl. Remember how big the house is, and that our pets like to eat things to figure out what they are.”

 

Steve grinned, blinding and adorable as always. He bounced forward and pecked Bucky’s cheek, and then dashed back into the house.

 

Bucky sighed, and then looked down at Ella.

“Let’s go take a closer look at some of this, shall we girl?” he whispered to her, ruffling one of her ears.

 

Ella _whuffed_ back happily.

 

Bucky was about halfway down the street when he heard the car peel out of the driveway. He rolled his eyes and kept walking.

 

_Two Days Later_

 

“What do you think, Buck?”

 

“Maybe a little to the left?” Bucky squinted, tilting his head.

 

Steve nodded, and adjusted the three-foot wreath on their front door.

 

“Perfect.”

 

Steve stepped back to join Bucky where he was standing in the middle of the yard.

 

“Do you think it needs more lights?”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Which would go where, exactly? Considering they line every part of the house?”

 

“Well, I wanted them to go with the garland...”

 

“That’s what you said about the velvet bows. And the planters of fake poinsettias. And the bunches of holly and ivy, the miniature sleigh, the _wooden_ _reindeer_ …”

 

“Yeah, but you love it.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, smiling at Steve’s flushed and happy face. “Yeah, I do.”

 

2.

 

Steve maintains that it’s Janet that started it, as per usual.

 

She showed up on the first Tuesday of December for tea, podcasts, and knitting with Steve as she regularly did. Clutched in her arms, under the giant bag of yarn, she carted two old cookie tins.

 

“Just a little something to get you feeling _festive_ , my dears,” she’d said happily, popping it open to reveal a pile of round cookies.

 

Then she’d smirked at Steve. “Although I don’t know how much help you really need, with how many strands of lights I counted. Tell me, can your Ironman see your house from space?”

 

Bucky had almost choked on an eggnog snickerdoodle from snorting with laughter. Steve had grumbled even as he thumped him on the back.

 

They’d tucked the cookies in the freezer, hoping to be able to ration them until the New Year.

 

The very next day, Steve got sent to City Hall to attend an awards ceremony for a charity. Bucky trooped on over to Ruthie’s with Ella in tow.

 

They watched the latest season of _The Great British Bake Off_ and chatted about the different sets of family Ruthie planned to drop in on over the next few weeks. Ella snoozed at Bucky’s feet, totally uninterested.

 

After a few hours, Steve texted to say he was on his way home. Bucky gathered up his bag, Ruthie’s new whiskey punch recipe,  and headed for the door, Ella’s leash in hand.

 

“Oh my! I almost forgot,” Ruthie exclaimed suddenly. She hurried into the kitchen, leaving Bucky blinking in the entranceway.

 

She quickly returned, carrying a large plastic Tupperware.

 

“Just some extra I had after my grandniece visited,” Ruthie said. She passed them over.

 

Bucky cracked the lid to find layers of lumpy cookies, wrapped in wax paper.

 

_Man, it’s good to have friends_ , Bucky thought later that night, after he and Steve sampled the peppermint brownie cookies.

 

Embarrassingly, it took another few days for them to get an inkling that something was going on.

 

“Stevie?” Bucky asked slowly, waving goodbye to Margaret as she pulled out of the driveway.

 

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve said. Or, that’s what he thought he said. It sounded like _yuh, Bug?_ through a mouthful of salted caramel gingerbread man (courtesy of Eleanor).

 

“Do you think maybe we’re missing a memo, or something?” Turning, he started towards the kitchen. Steve followed, still crunching. Bucky set the gift bag of red and green swirled

cheesecake cookies down on the kitchen table.

 

“Wadda you mean?” Steve said, finishing his cookie and licking the tips of his fingers clean of icing.

 

“Really?” Bucky asked. He walked over to the freezer. He yanked the door open, and flourished at the contents.

 

Steve took a long look at the stack of eight large containers of cookies jammed into the freezer. There was barely enough room for any of their other food (Steve’s waffles were looking pretty squashed).

 

“Ok, probably.”

 

The next day, Steve carefully tried to bring it up to Pearlie as she handed over another festively wrapped bag.

 

“Did I… miss a group chat message?” he asked, rubbing one hand on the back of his neck. “Because I mean, I feel like I might have missed something—“

 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Pearlie replied, waving a hand at him dismissively. “Nothing of the sort! You boys enjoy, now.”

 

And she hurried off back to her car.

 

“Hmm,” Steve said, passing the bag over to Bucky, who had appeared at his elbow.

 

“Ooh, peanuh bu’er,” Bucky mumbled, his mouth full.

 

All in all, it took a full nine days for everything to come together.

 

Steve went to Barbara-Jean’s house that evening for a few rounds of bridge with a group of their knitting friends. After a few games, Winnie placed her hand down on the table and seemed to suddenly remember something (except that sudden remembrance had a pretty dramatic gasp and a lot of fidgeting, Steve noticed).

 

“Oh, how could I forget!” she exclaimed. She reached under the table and pulled out a large bag.  Fishing around, she pulled an enormous container out and plopped it on the table.

 

She gestured to Steve, who carefully popped the lid.

 

“I just remembered I thought you and your honey might want to try my latest recipe!” she trilled happily. Then she winked at him.

 

Steve looked down at the pile of white chocolate cranberry biscottis, and back at Winnie with bemusement.

 

“Now, Winnie!” Dorothea said suddenly. “You _know_ that’s against the rules!”

 

“Aw, Dora, c’mon,” Winnie said. “When else would I have the opportunity?”

 

“What?” Steve asked growing increasingly bewildered.

 

Dorothea looked shifty all of a sudden. “Oh look, time for another hand—“

 

“Hang on,” Steve said. He put on his very best Captain-America-Says-Listen-Up voice. “What rules?”

 

Silence. They looked at each other.

 

“Well, you must know by now, don’t you?” Pearlie asked, looking at Steve.

 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “About?”

 

“The… betting pool?” Winnie asked, slowly.

 

Steve looked down at the cookies, and then back up at the group.

 

“What betting pool?” he asked blankly.

 

A pretty large one, it turned out. Involving a host of knitting group regulars and an impressively large pot. Entirely based around who, of 14 different individuals, could produce Steve and Bucky’s favourite Christmas cookies.

 

“So what did you do?” Bucky asked later, when they’re sat at the kitchen table having tea.

 

“Oh, I gave them my very best Captain-America-Is-Disappointed-In-Your-Behaviour speech,” Steve replied. He sipped his tea. “It was very stirring, if I do say so myself.”

 

Bucky snickered. Then he got up, and went over to the freezer.

 

“Which one do you want?” he asked.

 

“Oh, definitely the shortbread.” Steve replied. “Clearly the best ones.”

 

“Don't start that with me again, mister. You know it's the mint brownie snowflakes”. Bucky pulled both of the respective boxes out of the freezer. Coming back to the table, he looked contemplatively at the dessert.

 

“Think they’ll do it again next year?” he asked.

 

“Yep. They’ll just be sneakier, probably.”

 

“Perfect.”

  


3.

 

Steve walked into the main common room of the tower on the 6th, hoping to sneak a cup of Tony's secret stash of coffee before being shepherded to yet another holiday gala.

 

Looking down at his phone, he moved on memory towards the cupboard... And almost fell flat on his face after tripping over something large and green.

 

He just managed to catch himself on the counter, and looked up.

 

Steve stared blankly at the _piles_ of evergreen boughs taking up almost all the available floor space. He finally realized his nose was actually burning from the overpowering smell of pine.

 

“You've come to join us, Steven shield-brother!” came a merry cry from his left.

 

Steve swiveled his head to see Thor sitting in his armchair (the one specially designed by Tony to withstand both intense pressure and sudden thermodynamic changes). His hands were full of greenery, and there was a large bin of white candles sitting next to him.

 

“What-- uh,” Steve tried, “What are you up to there, Thor?”

 

“I was told by my Jane that it is customary on Earth as well to make large wreaths in honor of the yuletide!” Thor beamed. “So we are making enough for all of our friends, to express our joy in this important season.” He punctuated this by snapping a large bough in two.

 

“Oh!” Steve said. “That's really nice of you. They smell amazing.”

 

The scent was getting a little much, but it was still nice.

 

Then he backtracked.

 

“Wait. We?”

 

Thor beamed impossibly wider, and reached down beside the chair, hauling up what looked like an old fashioned metal birdcage. In it, a small green snake was curled up in some wood chips. It lifted its head and flickered its tongue.

 

Steve looked down at the snake, and then back up again at Thor.

 

“Is-- is that--”

 

“Indeed!” Thor replied. “Loki made a witch rather angry some time ago, and she has cursed him into a snake until the solstice. I did not hear the entire story, but I do believe it was something about trying to set the Yule Goat alight.”

Steve swore he saw the snake's eyes roll before it nestled back down in the bedding, and appeared to go to sleep.

 

Steve's mind whirled. On the one hand, here was the god who had made their lives very complicated on many occasions. Tony and Clint in particular probably wouldn't appreciate him in the Tower.

 

On the other hand, it looked like a pretty sturdy cage.

 

And-- it was Christmas, after all.

 

“Want some help?” Steve asked. “I could use a way out of this gala.” He started to make his way over through the piles.

 

“We would be honored, Steven!” Thor announced happily. He set the cage back down on the floor, and cleared away a pile of boughs from another armchair.

 

“Now,” he continued, as Steve sat down. “First we weave the branches. Then we attach the candles-- they are to glow like the sun which has abandoned us… but first, what say you to some of that finest of holiday drinks, the steaming chocolate?”

 

Steve smiled. “That would be lovely.”

 

4.

 

On the 10th of December, Steve discovered the ugly Christmas sweater trend.

 

It wasn’t even Pinterest’s fault this time-- it was Tara’s. She and her girlfriend threw a Christmas party at their apartment for the entire yarn-bomb crew.

 

“Aw,” Ngozi moaned, taking Steve’s coat. “You didn’t wear a Christmas sweater.”

 

Steve had looked down at his button up, and then back up again.

 

“Tara didn’t mention a dress code…?” he said cautiously.

 

“No, silly,” she said. “It’s a new Christmas thing. Themed sweaters!” Steve was only a bit unnerved by the glee with which she said this.

 

She gestured to her torso. Steve looked down to focus on the sweater she was wearing. It was dark blue, with appliqued snowmen. There were tiny pieces of orange plastic carrots sticking out of the sweater on the snowmens’ faces. Inexplicably, they were holding hot dogs.

 

“Uh.” Steve said. His ma had never explained how to tell someone that their clothing choices were… suspect, at best.

 

Ngozi grinned at him. “It’s terrible, right? Come see everyone else’s.”

 

Taking him by the hand, she pulled him into the living room, where the rest of the crew had already gathered.

 

“I just explained Christmas sweaters to Steve,” she announced.

 

There was an immediate clamor as everyone else on the crew rushed to show Steve their sweater.

 

“DJ’s had pigs as reindeer,” Steve told Bucky later that night, digging through his yarn. “Sara’s was entirely covered in sequined snowflakes, and I mean entirely, _and_ she had a matching hijab. It was amazing.”

 

He punctuated this by yanking his hand out of the “special” bin, a large ball of glittery gold yarn clutched in his fist.

 

Bucky pulled out the drumstick bag they’d converted into a knitting needle bag. “You want the circular ones?” he asked. “Size 10? And maybe I’ll put on a movie?”

 

“Yes please.”

 

Two days later, Steve had to save Central Park from frost giants. It was cold and wet and _took forever_ \-- they had to chase them all over the city. By the time they were done, everyone was uncomfortable, and they still had a press conference to complete before they could go home.

 

“Might want to do something about that, Rogers,” Tony commented, pointing down at Steve’s chest. “Unless you want headlines like I got last time I spoke to the press shirtless.”

 

Steve looked down to notice the giant slash across his torso. Evidently if he’d been hurt from it, it had healed already, but his jacket front was in tatters. No wonder he felt chilled.

 

“Not to worry,” he said. “I’ve got it covered.” He went to his bag, shrugging out of his jacket, and pulled his sweater from it. Tugging it down over his head, he turned back to the team.

 

The rest of the team stared at him. Steve raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.

 

Sam snickered, and elbowed Tony. “Jarvis can record this for us, yeah?”

 

Tony grinned at him, tapping the frame of the glasses he’d just put on.

 

“Way ahead of you, Sir,” came Jarvis’ voice from the plane.

 

When the clips of Steve hit Youtube, the site almost crashed. No one seemed to know how to react to Captain America wearing a green sweater with a sparkly golden retriever in a santa hat with real bells on it. It made his eyes look even bluer, and his cheeks, still red from the cold, even rosier.The gifs of the reporters, trying vainly to look at anything besides Steve’s torso, soared to over 100, 000 reblogs on Tumblr in under an hour.

 

After the conference, Clint leaned over. “I’ll trade you a month’s worth of pizzas for one.”

 

“ _Same_ ,” Natasha, Bruce, and Sam said simultaneously.

 

Steve came home delighted but also worried. It had practically been a miracle he’d finished his own so quickly. There was still a lot to do before Christmas day-- there was no way he could finish a sweater per Avenger by that deadline.

 

_Time to call in the troops_ , he thought, and opened Facebook.

 

By the end of the next week, the knitting circle had managed to produce a sweater for everyone that had asked for one, and more.

 

Tony’s featured tiny dancing robots with real working lights.

 

Natasha’s was green with a gigantic bedazzled wolf baring its fangs and sporting reindeer ears.

 

Clint’s featured the phrase “merry Christmas, ya filthy animal” in gigantic red print (and he cried when he received it).

 

Thor’s was a buttoned up explosion of crazy red, yellow, and green argyles and had a tiny red cape.

 

Bruce’s was lime green with marching polar bears carrying candy canes.

 

Wanda and Pietro’s matched, with white backgrounds and appliqued menorahs. On the backs, they featured gigantic lettering of the phrase “let’s light it up”.

 

They took a group selfie the night Steve handed them out.

 

Instagram went absolutely bananas.

 

After the fourth offer to pay “whatever it takes” for one of the sweaters, Pepper stepped in. She offered to auction Tony’s sweater to the highest bidder and donate the proceeds to a local shelter for LGBT youth. She also promised that for Stark Industries would match that figure, dollar for dollar.

 

In the end, they auctioned all of the sweaters.

 

The night they handed the check over, Steve hung the picture of the team, with the staff of the youth shelter, in his workshop.

 

He stood back, taking a long look at the picture.

 

Bucky came to find him eventually, and tucked himself under Steve’s arm. He watched Steve’s gaze drift over the overjoyed faces in the picture.

 

“Good job, honey,” he murmured in Steve’s ear.

 

Steve smiled, and hugged him back.

 

“You want one next year?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

5.

  


The media will say what it wants, but Bucky blames what happens the next weekend squarely on Natasha.

 

“‘It’s just for two days’, you said,” Bucky grumbled, tying a clove hitch knot around one man’s arms with garland. “‘It’ll be _fun_ , Bucky, it’ll _get you out of the house, Bucky._ It’ll _be easy_ , Bucky…’”

 

“What’s getting out of of the house without some excitement?” Natasha asked breezily, using some packing tape to seal the man’s mouth shut.

 

_Forty Eight Hours Previous_

 

Bucky walked into the craft fair and almost walked directly out again.

 

Even thought it was still an hour before opening, the community hall was packed full of people trying to decorate and set up their stands. They were talking, and laughing, and milling around, shouting over the christmas-themed jazz music that drifted through the air. The scent of various baked goods, pine, and craft glue permeated everything and was almost overpowering.

 

However, even as he turned to leave, he bumped directly into Natasha, who glared at him over the large stack of boxes she was carrying.

 

“Don’t even think about it, Barnes,” she warned. “I know where you live.”

 

“Yeah, and I know which soap you like in the bathroom,” Bucky replied, rolling his eyes.   


“Yes, but I also know how you organize your records. And how to disturb that system.” She narrowed her eyes.

 

Bucky winced. “Ok, yeah, let’s go.”

 

He turned back into the room and took a deep breath, steeling himself.

 

Natasha stepped up beside him.

 

“You know you don’t have to if you really don’t want to, _solnyshka_ ,” she said, her tone softening. “I can do this on my own.”

 

Bucky sighed. “I know. But a promise is a promise. And besides, you and Steve are right. It’ll probably be good for me.”

 

“Well, I am almost always right,” she replied, smiling. She started walking over to the far end of the hall where their table had been designated.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes again, and followed her.

 

Two days. A Christmas craft show, pairing his soaps with Natasha’s ceramics.

 

How bad could it really be?

 

By the end of the last day, Bucky was actually only sort of regretting that statement.

 

To keep up with Natasha’s guise as a Quebecoise woman, Bucky had decided to adopt a cover as her brother from out of town, here to showcase his special soaps, and help Natasha at the stand for the weekend. He was 36, unmarried, and did not speak English, which, as Bucky had hoped, had drastically reduced the amount of time he spent talking to anyone.

 

(He had put on a giant handlebar mustache and tucked all of his hair up under a leather flat cap. They were a little bothersome, but were marvelous at keeping him hidden. Natasha had tucked all her hair under an enormous curly black wig, and was speaking with such a thick accent people generally left the stand looking a little baffled. All in all, Bucky felt they were excellent disguises.)

 

They’d been in full swing since the market had opened for business the day before. Bucky and Natasha had decided to do special gift baskets that combined Bucky’s red swirled apple-chai bars or sparkly black peppermint bars with one of Natasha’s cloudy blue bowls. Bucky had set up a diffuser under the table that he had managed to program to release a cycle of certain essential oils (orange, peppermint, apple/cinnamon, and evergreen) that subtly enticed visitors over to their table.

 

(Bucky had tested this all on Steve first, by sneaking it into the living room under an armchair. After an hour, Steve had launched into several new Christmas-themed knitting projects and started unconsciously humming Christmas songs.)

 

Bucky was feeling pretty proud of himself. He’d withstood the crazy rush of people all clamouring for their attention without having even one breakdown. He’d managed to focus on handling the cash and wrapping purchases so intently he’d even been able to drown out all of the scents and voices around him.

 

With four hours to go, and a slight lull in the sales, he decided he was feeling good enough to brave the long coffee line at the small brew stand closest to them. Standing up, he took a deep stretch to work out the kinks in his back, letting his gaze drift across the market for the first time in hours.

 

It was still pretty crazy in the hall, but Bucky could tell things were starting to wind down. It looked like a few of the stands had completely sold out and were packing things up.

 

Maybe he’d get a bagel to go with the coffee. He’d noticed an interesting looking gourmet bagel stall on his way to the bathroom earlier.

 

Craning his neck, he looked around the hall, hunting for the bagels. And then he froze.

 

Across the hall, wandering between people, was a man Bucky knew  too well.

 

Franz Heidler. One of Bucky’s former handlers.

 

As he watched, Heidler casually wandered between a stall selling crocheted ornaments and another with embroidered wall hangings. Bucky watched him lean over as if to examine a crocheted cactus, while gently setting his briefcase under the table of the crochet stand. He straightened, starting up a conversation with the stall owner.

 

Bucky, with deliberate slowness, turned back towards where Natasha was sitting. She was frozen, holding a plate in one hand and a polishing rag in the other, also staring at Heidler. Feeling Bucky’s gaze, she turned up to look at him. She nodded.

 

Bucky turned back to see Heidler finishing his conversation. He turned, and started to make his way towards the bathrooms.

 

“I think I’m going to take a break, sister,” Bucky said quietly, watching Heidler disappear into the bathrooms.

 

Natasha’s lips lifted briefly. “Do be quick, James. And bring me a coffee.”

 

Bucky moved swiftly and surely towards the bathrooms, sliding around people with all the grace of a dancer. He arrived a moment after the door shut behind Heidler, and heard the lock click quietly.

 

Bucky took a quick glance around, making sure no one was eyeing him directly. A toddler waved and giggled at him, so he waved back.

 

Leaning against the door, he reached under his cap and pulled a bobby pin free of his hair. He then slipped a hand behind himself, and carefully picked the lock. And waited.

 

Across the hall, he heard a _smash_ as Natasha “accidentally” dropped a box full of mugs to the floor. As all heads turned to the sound, Bucky turned the knob and slid into the bathroom, relocking the door behind him.

 

Heidler was facing away from him, washing his hands.

 

He looked up, annoyed.

 

“Excuse me sir, I do believe I--” he started.

 

Bucky met his eye in the mirror, and then held up his hands. He carefully pulled his gloves off.

 

Heidler’s eyes snapped to his metal hand, and he turned white as a sheet.

 

Whipping around, he reached for his pocket, but Bucky was already there. Grabbing his wrist, he swung Heidler around, twisting his arm up behind his back. He used the other hand to grab the back of his neck and put him face first into the countertop.

 

Heidler groaned.

 

“Ah, ah,” Bucky said. “I don’t think so. Any more noise and you’ll see how creative I can get when my brain isn’t being electrified into jello. Now, why don’t you spit out that cyanide capsule before I rip it out myself.”

 

Heidler gulped, and then turned his head and spat out the capsule into the sink.

 

“Why thank you,” Bucky said. Then he yanked Heidler’s head back, and smashed it down onto the countertop. Heidler went limp.

 

Bucky reached into his pockets and retrieved a knife. It was a pretty nice one, so he tucked it in with the one he had stashed above his ankle. He also found a cellphone.

 

Bucky managed to crack the password in about 10 seconds -- seriously, you’d think a major terrorist organization would have more than five passwords -- and quickly figured out that the briefcase contained several kilograms of an experimental new drug that had mind-control uses.

 

“Now, that isn’t exactly in the Christmas spirit,” Bucky lectured Heidler. Heidler remained unresponsive.

 

Bucky pulled out the roll of packing tape he had tucked in his jacket and proceeded to wrap Heidler’s hands and feet together, finishing by wrapping up his mouth. He dragged him off the sink, propping him up on the toilet. Making his way back out again, Bucky snagged the “out of order” sign down off the back of the bathroom door. He slipped his gloves back on.

 

Bucky stepped out of the bathroom, and carefully hung the sign on the door.

 

“Aw, seriously?” A guy in purple plaid said, walking up. “Did someone puke in there _again_?” Bucky thought he recognized him from a stand selling knitted beard warmers.

 

“Yeah, and it’s pretty bad,” Bucky said. “On the walls and everything. I’m going to go let the organizers know. I think there’s another bathroom on the other end of the hall, though.”

 

“Ugh. Thanks for warning me, man.”

 

“No problem.” Bucky turned, and walked back over to Natasha, who had cleaned up the shards of pottery.

 

“Did you forget my coffee?” she asked in French, as he took his seat beside her.

 

“Thought it might be better to get one later, when the line dies down.” Bucky replied in kind.

 

Natasha lifted an eyebrow. “It will be worth the wait, you think?”

 

Bucky nodded, and slipped her the cellphone under the table.

 

“Yes, I think so.”

 

She took the phone and opened it under the table.

 

“Yes, I think we should give it some time,” she murmured after a reading for a moment. “Keep an eye on things.”

 

Bucky nodded, and settled back in his seat.

 

45 minutes later, a group of five people wandered into the market. They looked right at home in the market, wearing knitted sweaters, colourful scarves, and carrying backpacks.

 

Natasha and Bucky spotted them right away, and simultaneously snorted.

 

They watched them slowly wander up to the stall with the embroidery. One of men, sporting a tiny bun and tortoiseshell glasses, struck up a conversation with the stall owner. The woman next to him bent down, seeming to need to tie the laces of her Doc Martens. She casually lifted a corner of the tablecloth.

 

When she looked underneath and froze, Bucky almost snickered out loud.

 

(Of course the suitcase was already hidden underneath Natasha's stall. They weren't _amateurs_ , unlike these jokers.)

 

The woman slowly got to her feet, and leaned over to whisper in the ear of a man wearing a sweater decorated with dogs in santa hats. The man startled slightly, and started to gaze out over the marketplace.

 

Bucky held a block of soap to his face, smelling it. Natasha leaned down to rifle through one of their remaining boxes. The man’s gaze slipped past them.

 

The first man finished up his conversation with the stall owner, and turned to the others. They spoke briefly, and the first man’s shoulders hunched. After a moment, they started to move away from the stall and towards the door.

 

“MJ,” Natasha said quietly in English to the girl next them selling cupcakes, “Watch stand for us, you would? Need break for _le caf_ _é._ ”

 

“Sure thing,” MJ said, smiling.

 

Bucky and Natasha got to their feet, Natasha swinging her bag up onto her shoulder.

 

The group moved towards the door, and Bucky and Natasha snuck out a side entrance.

 

When the group came hurrying around the corner into the alleyway a few moments later, they were waiting for them.

 

“Merry Christmas, boys and girls,” Natasha purred, as Bucky widened his stance and tossed his gloves to the ground.

 

All in all, it took about ten minutes for them to have all the Hydra agents out cold at the back of the alley.

 

Bucky groaned as dragged man-bun over to the trash cans.

 

“My back won’t thank you for this excitement, Natalia,” he muttered.

 

Natasha rolled her eyes, her phone pressed to her ear.

 

“Steve?” she said. “We’ve got a bit of a situation here. Yeah, no, he’s fine, but we could use some help…”

 

They were back in the market, packed up, and gone in twenty minutes -- before Steve and the rest of the Avengers showed up.

 

By the time “Hydra Attacks Christmas Market” hits the internet, they’re back at the house, Bucky mixing up ingredients for apple cider and Natasha sitting on the counter ordering pizza.

 

Natasha held up her phone for Bucky to see. He snickered at the picture of Tony hauling Heidler out of the bathroom, a Santa hat perched jauntily over his Ironman helmet.

 

“So what do you think, _solnyshka_?” she asked, jumping down and snagging one of the apples from Bucky’s pile. “Want to do it again next year?”

 

“Sure,” Bucky replied. “I’ve got an idea for a green apple soap. What do you think of _How Hydra Tried to Steal Christmas_ for a name?”

 

“Sounds perfect.”

  


6.

  


Steve came home one afternoon to a cacophony of laughing voices floating down the stairs.

 

Following the voices, he climbed up to the third level and opened the door to Bucky's workroom.

 

Janet was holding court, a rapt Bucky, Pietro, and Wanda hanging on her every word. They were seated around Bucky's main work table, mugs of eggnog sitting haphazardly among scraps of wood, containers of paint, and various cutting instruments. They greeted him with a chorus of hellos.

 

“Hey folks,” Steve said, coming in to stand behind Bucky's chair. He dropped a kiss to Bucky's upturned cheek. “What are we working on?”

 

“Dreidels, Steven. It is that time of year, after all. I had no idea these two lovely young people were Jewish too!” She grinned at Pietro and Wanda. Wanda smiled shyly, and Pietro winked.

 

“Uh... Too?” Steve asked, confused.

 

“Yes, Steve, darling. Didn't you know?”

 

“I guess we didn't ever talk about religion?” Steve said. “And… didn't you give us Christmas cookies?”

 

Janet rolled her eyes. “Cookies, as far as I am concerned, are non-denominational. Unless you'd like me to take them back?” she challenged.

 

“No!” Steve and Bucky near-shouted simultaneously.

 

Wanda giggled behind her hand, and Janet grinned at her.

 

Steve cleared his throat, a faint blush tingeing his ears. “Anyways… can I try?”

 

“Of course, Steve. So, you're going to need…”

 

They spent a companionable few hours experimenting with the toys, making several extra for Janet's grandchildren.

 

As the sun slowly slipped behind the horizon, Janet grabbed her bag and box full of dreidels, citing a need to go help her husband with dinner.

 

“He makes a good brisket,” she sighed, “but he burns almost everything else. Now!”

 

She pointed at Pietro and Wanda, who blinked at her.

 

“You two will be coming to my house on Monday for the final night. Be there at 6 for dinner.”

 

“Oh, we couldn't impose…” Wanda began.

 

“Nonsense!” Janet announced. “Hanukkah is a special time to be had together, with family.”

 

She smiled gently.

 

“You're Jewish. That makes you _mishpokhe_ , as far as I'm concerned. So I will see you tomorrow?”

 

Steve didn't miss the way Pietro's “yes” came out a little wobbly, or the way Wanda's eyes seemed a little bright.

  


7.

  


It started after Steve spent the afternoon with Tara.

 

She'd been spending her Tuesday nights helping a local girl guide troop, and when it was time for their final meeting before Christmas, she called on Steve to give her an artist's hand with their activity that evening.

 

Gingerbread houses.

 

They were pretty simple ones -- built from kits that came with premade cookies and icing -- but Steve was utterly enchanted.

 

(Bucky's favorite picture from the night was Steve with a tiny girl sporting elaborate braids and an Ironman t-shirt. The girl looked both delighted and conflicted.)

 

“It's not like _baking_ , Buck,” he said when he came home later that night, sticky with bits of candy and icing, his eyes shining. “It's like… architecture!”

 

He'd pulled out his phone to show Bucky all the posts he'd tagged on Pinterest, chattering excitedly about candies and icing and cookie texture.

 

Bucky had smiled fondly. “Sure, go for it, Stevie. Anyway, I bet if we don't like them, Clint will.”

 

He'd left Steve to his Pinterest deep dive and went to find some tea. Maybe he'd call Natalia. Whatever happened, Steve was going to be busy for a while.

 

The next afternoon, Bucky was banished from the kitchen for several hours, with the strict instruction of “whatever happens, _do not come in until I tell you_ ”.

 

(After the fourth time the smoke alarm went off, followed the smell of something burning, and sixth quiet bout of quiet cursing, Bucky had officially switched from Amused to Concerned.)

 

Finally, Steve came to find Bucky in the library. Bucky followed him downstairs, into the kitchen where Steve had dimmed the lights.

 

On the table, surrounded by fairy lights, was an adorable little gingerbread cottage. One storey, lined completely with white icing and gumdrops. Bucky let his eyes drift from the roof covered in tiny chocolate shingles, to the licorice pieces making the windows, to the peppermint drops making a path to the tiny pretzel-stick door. A tiny chimney of gingerbread pieces protruded from the roof.

 

“This is,” Bucky said, after a moment, “the cutest goddamned thing I've ever seen.”

 

Steve grinned. “I know, right? Wish we didn't have to wait.”

 

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

 

“Wait?” he asked dubiously.

 

“Well, yeah,” Steve replied. “You have to wait until after Christmas to eat it. You just admire it until then.”

 

“Really?” Bucky said. “Well, you're the expert. Good thing I love you more than I like gingerbread. It's gorgeous though, Stevie.”

 

Steve preened, picked it up, and put it on the kitchen counter...

 

...Which is where he went to look for it the next afternoon after he texted Tara about it. He wanted a picture for her, as she'd just taught him how to use the Snapchats.

 

Tilting his phone around for a better angle, Steve stopped.

 

Some of the peppermint steps were missing. And the entire chimney. The roof was also slightly askew.

 

Steve's thoughts went immediately to Ella and Dodger -- none of the candy could have been good for them. He quickly searched the house. Ella was in the living room, and seemed as chipper as usual. She followed him as he continued his search. He found Dodger in the living room with Bucky, who looked up from his book as Steve attempted to approach Dodger without getting grumbled at.

 

“Everything ok, Stevie?” Bucky asked, putting his book down.

 

“I guess so,” Steve said, finishing his examination of Dodger, who seemed to be acting as normal as he ever got. “Think the pets got into the gingerbread house.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky said. He shifted in his spot on the couch. “They haven't been acting any different. But we can take them to Dr. Dingwell if you're worried.”

 

“Not yet, I guess,” Steve said. “Maybe give it to the end of the day. I don't think they got any chocolate.”

 

“Sounds good,” Bucky replied. “I'll keep an eye on them.” He went back to his book. Ella curled up beside the couch and went to sleep.

 

Steve went back to the kitchen and frowned at the house. They certainly couldn't eat this one if the pets had been into it.

 

He found his phone, opened Pinterest again, and brought up his board for gingerbread houses. Then he grabbed a nearby notebook and pencil and started sketching.

 

Bucky came into the kitchen at one point, took a look at the kitchenware strewn across the kitchen, the several baking sheets of gingerbread, the sketchbook, and Steve’s manic eyes and flour-streaked hair, and backed right out again.

 

“I'll just... call for pizza, maybe?” he said, retreating.

 

“Mmmm…” Steve hummed, trying to stick a spatula behind his ear.

 

Sometime around midnight, Steve sighed and finally took a step back, evaluating his work.

 

This time, he'd created a two storey log cabin with a full length chimney on the side. The logs were sticks of gingerbread precariously stacked and cemented with icing. Several small gingerbread figures waved from the front yard. The roof was shingled with cinnamon hearts, and candy canes lined the door.

 

Carefully, he carried it out into the library, placed it on a high table, and closed the door-- hopefully out of reach of any inquisitive furry noses. Steve snapped a picture, and headed to bed.

 

The next day was a busy one. He'd volunteered to help Janet decide who was getting what knitting for Christmas; it  took up the morning. Then Captain America and Ironman visited a hospital, passing out donated gifts to kids who were staying there for the holiday. He came home to find Bucky and Clint watching a Christmas movie marathon. Clint had been “ _scandalized, guys, seriously_ ” when he had apparently discovered from Bucky they hadn't watched any Christmas movies.

 

They broke out the hot cider Clint had brought with him and the knitting circle cookies (Clint's favorite were the peanut toffee bites from Wilma) and made their way through _Love, Actually_ , _A Christmas Story_ , and _Home Alone_ before calling it a night.

 

Remembering that he left his book in the library, Steve went back to search for it, sparing a quick glance for the gingerbread house.

 

Then he stopped, and went for a closer look.

 

Structurally, the house was fine. But Steve was down two out of five gingerbread people. A section of the chimney was gone, and so were some of the cinnamon heart shingles and one of the candy canes.

 

Steve narrowed his eyes.

 

“Damn Barton and his addiction to gingerbread,” he grumbled as he climbed into bed, book in hand.

 

“Hmm?” Bucky asked, engrossed in his phone. “Did he eat the house? I didn't notice.”

 

“No, no,” Steve sighed. “The house is fine, I guess. Well, at least I know the pets didn't get to it this time.” He snuggled into Bucky's side.

 

“Yeah, that's always good. Time for bed? I just have to go brush my teeth.”

 

“You didn't already?”

 

“Oh, nah, I uh, I forgot.” Bucky levered himself out of bed, and padded into the bathroom.

 

Steve tucked an arm behind his head, picking up his book. After a moment, he put it down again, too distracted to concentrate.

 

When Bucky came out of the bathroom, he had his phone in one hand, and another sketch book in another. Rolling his eyes with a smile, he tucked himself back in and kissed Steve's cheek.

 

“Night, Stevie,” he said, turning out his lamp.

 

“Hmm,” Steve mumbled around a pencil, making some notations.

 

The next morning, Steve woke with a purpose. Still in his pajamas, he strode into the library and picked up the gingerbread house, hauling it downstairs to the kitchen and plopping it on the table.

 

Bucky, with a mouthful of cereal, raised an eyebrow.

 

“Good morning?” he said, swallowing.

 

Steve pulled his sketchbook from his robe pocket. Opening it, he tipped out several loose pages and spread them out on the table.

 

Bucky picked up his bowl. “Why don't I just… Get out of your way,” he said, backing out of the room.

 

“Love you,” Steve replied, arranging and rearranging the sheets.

 

All told, it took six hours.

 

But Steve wasn't sure if he'd ever been more proud of anything in his life.

 

A miniature castle sat on their kitchen table. It had two foot high buildings connected with six towers. Details had been iced on with red and green icing, creating tiny cornices and lacy edges. Sticks of peppermint made large pillars, and twined licorice made arches. Each tower and building had tiny roofs of chocolate wafers. Gumdrops lined the walls, suggesting bricks. To the side was a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, their antlers made from chocolate bark. Jellybeans made delicate lines and whorls on the sides of the buildings. In a courtyard between one building and a tower, small green gummies formed a tiny Christmas tree decorated with sprinkles.

 

Steve wiped his forehead, and grimaced. He was covered in a fine layer of icing, sprinkles, and gingerbread crumbs.

 

Definitely time for a shower.

 

He headed upstairs, fully intending to get up close and personal with some of Bucky's lemon rosemary soap. Stripping, he looked around for his phone. Nowhere to be seen, so it was probably still downstairs. Sighing, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back to the kitchen.

 

Coming into the kitchen, he spotted his phone on the counter next to the house. He made his way over and picked it up, sparing a glance for the house.

 

Two reindeer were missing.

 

Steve raised an eyebrow.

 

Slowly, he turned towards the door, looking it over.

 

There-- just on the edge of the door frame-- was a tiny chocolate smear.

 

Like someone left the kitchen in a hurry. After holding something with chocolate on it.

 

“Hmm,” Steve muttered. Then he smiled, slow and sly.

 

He carefully shifted the towel just a little bit lower on his hips, tucking it tightly so it wouldn't slip.

 

Then he walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, stopping in the doorway. He leaned against the frame and crossed his arms, making his biceps stand out nicely.

 

He cleared his throat.

 

Bucky looked up from his book.

 

The one he was holding upside down.

 

“Hey honey,” Steve purred.

 

Bucky looked at him, shifting slightly in his seat.

 

“Stevie…?” He asked.

 

Steve sauntered over slowly, feeling the towel shift lower on his hips. Bucky's eyes tracked it.

 

Steve swung a leg over Bucky's, leaning down so his arms caged him. Bucky's hands came up to his waist automatically.

 

Steve leaned in close, aligning his lips with Bucky's ear.

 

“Tell me,” he whispered, “Are you on Santa's naughty list this year?” He pulled back, looking Bucky in the eye, but darting his eyes down to Bucky's lips.

 

Bucky gulped audibly.

 

“I--uh--I didn't… think so…” he managed.

 

“Let's find out,” Steve murmured, and leaned in.

 

Bucky sighed when Steve pressed his lips to his, and moaned audibly when he opened his mouth and swiped his tongue into Bucky's mouth.

 

And then made a very startled noise as Steve suddenly surged backwards.

 

“A _ha_ !” Steve said, pointing at him. “I knew it! You have _gingerbread breath_ , mister!”

 

Bucky winced, looking immediately chagrined.

 

“Dammit,” he muttered.

 

“You fink!” Steve continued, hands on his hips. “I thought I was going crazy!”

 

“Sorry, Stevie,” Bucky said. “I just tried a little piece that broke off and it was _really good_ , I didn't _know_ gingerbread could be that good, and, and, I just… got carried away?”

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “It's ok. You could have just said you wanted to eat some of it, though.”

 

“Yeah, but you loved it so much…”

 

“I love _you_ , weirdo. Besides…”

 

Steve grinned down at Bucky, and leaned in again.

 

“It does taste pretty good second hand…”

 

Bucky grinned and yanked the towel off.

 

8.

  


After the success of the gingerbread houses, Bucky decided it was his turn to attempt some Christmas baking. After some thinking, he settled his mind on the perfect dessert: fruitcake.

 

“Like your ma used to make, when she had the money to do it,” he said happily, heaving his bag of groceries onto the counter.

 

“I can’t believe I forgot about that,” Steve said wonderingly. “Are we still going to stir in wishes?”

 

“You bet your sweet ass we will,” Bucky replied, digging around under the kitchen counters. “Do we even own cake pans?”

 

Steve winced. “Uh… You may have used them as soap moulds.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Bucky said, remembering.“If I make you the special hot chocolate, will you go buy me some?”

 

“I can be back in under a half hour.”

 

“You want caramel drizzle?”

 

“Make that 15 minutes.”

 

It took a few attempts, but together they managed to produce a cake. It came out of the oven dark brown and studded with glistening pieces of candied fruit, filling the kitchen with a warm and distantly familiar aroma.

 

“And now,” Bucky said, pulling out two forty ounce bottles of rum and thumping them on the counter, “We add the most important ingredient.”

 

Steve eyed the bottles dubiously. “I mean, we already soaked the fruit in sherry. Think it’s necessary to soak the cake?”

 

“I mean, this is what that girl on Youtube with the cool hair and the cooking channel did. And her cocktail recipe to go with the cake sounded pretty delicious.” Bucky replied, unscrewing the cap off a bottle.

 

“True,” Steve said, grabbing a pastry brush. “She seemed pretty wise.”

 

After brushing the top of the cake, they soaked a piece of cheesecloth and then wrapped it around the cake (Bucky had to keep smacking Steve's hands to keep him from trying to snag a corner).

 

Every few days, Bucky unwrapped the cake and dosed it with more rum, then rewrapped it and put it back. Finally, after a week, he proclaimed it finished.

 

“Man, that looks fantastic,” Steve commented. “Smells… powerful, too.”

 

“I think it’ll be good though” Bucky replied. “When I asked Ruthie about them, she said she thought we were doing it right. ‘More is better than less with fruitcake’, is what she said.”

 

Steve shrugged. “That’s as good an idea as anything. Want a bite?”

 

They sampled a piece together.

 

“That _is_ pretty delicious,” Steve said. “Just like Ma’s.” He smiled at Bucky, who gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

 

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty good. Hey, we could make more of these for the Christmas party!” Bucky suggested. He cut off another slice for himself.

 

“Yeah, we could make mini ones for everyone? Janet has these cool tiny pans I bet I could borrow.”

 

Bucky grinned at him. “You go find the tiny pans, I’ll get to the grocery store?”

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

They made 48 tiny cakes. They come out even better than the first, golden and smelling delightful.

 

“You know,” Bucky said thoughtfully. “The rum was pretty good. But I bet a combination would be even better.”

 

“Oh, good point!” Steve said. “We’ve got brandy downstairs. Oh, and some of that Asgardian liqueur.”

 

Bucky pointed at him. “Excellent work, Rogers. Let’s make it so.”

 

Bucky makes a special mixture of rum, brandy, and the Asgardian liqueur and carefully administers it to the cakes over the next week.

 

(They take up the entire downstairs fridge.)

 

The evening of Tony’s Christmas party, they wrap the cakes in wax paper and tuck them into a nice basket, adorning it all with a festive red bow.

 

Bucky managed to find their suits in the back of Steve’s closet; a nice navy one for Steve, and a dark grey for Bucky. Steve presented Bucky with one of the tacky Christmas ties Ngozi had given him. Once Steve has helped him braid his hair to Bucky’s liking they head over to the Tower.

 

The party had just gotten started when they arrived. Bucky brought the cakes directly over to Pepper, who seemed to be the one directing the show. Tony followed them over to the table and watched Bucky unwrap them and place them on a platter that the waitstaff had procured for him.

 

“Fruitcakes?” Tony asked, suspiciously. “I thought you were joking. No one actually likes fruitcake.”

 

Pepper glared at him so hard that Steve was almost surprised Tony was still standing there.

 

“I’m just updating them on current perspectives!” Tony backpedaled hastily. “These could be… fine, probably?”

 

“Well, they haven’t had ours yet,” Bucky said. “And maybe they’ll only be for people that can appreciate them, hmm?” He raised an eyebrow at Tony.

 

“There’s no need to be like _that_ ,” Tony responded mulishly. He snagged a fruitcake, putting it on a plate. He put a forkful in his mouth exaggeratedly, and then stopped.

 

“Hey, not bad,” he said, surprised. He quickly set on devouring the rest.

 

Steve silently held out a hand to Bucky, who high fived him. Pepper rolled her eyes, but continued smiling.

 

That more or less set the tone for the evening-- people would walk up to the table, and ignore the fruitcakes until someone mentioned Steve and Bucky created them. Steve ended up making a drinking game based on how often they were told that the person didn’t normally like fruitcake, but these were different.

 

After Sam had had his first, he loudly called to Tony across the room, “Hey Stark! Looks like you’re not the only fruitcake I like!”

 

After about an hour, the party was in full swing, all available guests having an excellent time. Steve and Bucky didn’t even have a chance to sample the cakes as they kept getting pulled away to talk to people.

 

“Actually,” Steve murmured to Bucky, watching Clint start singing to Natasha over what looked like his third fruitcake, “Doesn’t everyone seem to be getting festive… a tad, uh, fast?”

 

“Um,” Bucky replied, staring at Sam and Carol, who were leaning on each other and swaying their arms back and forth to Clint’s singing, “Yeah, maybe?”

 

“My friends!” Came the merry announcement from behind them. They turned to find Thor holding a plate of fruitcake and looking rather red in the cheeks.

 

“What wonderful confections you have made!” he exclaimed. “I am honoured you would choose our best of Asgardian drinks to enhance them with! This will be a _merry_ night indeed!”

 

And with that, he strode off, heading over to where Wanda was teaching Bruce how to braid her hair, while Maria Hill appeared to be giving advice from her position atop the piano. As they watched, he plopped down in the chair next to them and started telling a story entirely in Asgardian. Weirdly, Bruce started to nod along.

 

“Huh,” Bucky said, staring down at the fruitcake in his hand. “We didn’t really cook the alcohol out of these, did we.”

 

“Er,” Steve said. He was watching Nick Fury and Pepper do an impressive waltz around the Christmas tree (it was mostly impressive because they were skillfully dodging Hope Van Dyne and Jane, who had pulled out a notebook and were comparing what looked like equations, with an excess of arm flailing). “No, we did not.”

 

Tony went flying past, giggling madly.

 

“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind them. Phil Coulson shouldered between them, a bright red bow attached to his head. He wobbled after Tony, looking determined.

 

“Maybe next year we leave out the Asgardian stuff,” Bucky said, carefully putting his plate on a nearby table.

 

Steve grinned. “Or, we just add more, and make them for New Years.”

 

“That would also work.”

  
9.  
  


Bucky walked out of the bedroom and into the library.

 

“Steve. Why has my pants drawer been entirely filled with pajamas?”

 

Steve looked up from his place on the sofa with his book, excited. “I learned about it from Clint! You get new pajamas at Christmas.”

 

Bucky looked at him. “That does not explain the _entire drawer_ full of pajamas.”

 

Steve fidgeted a little. “Well, he didn’t say how many you get. Or when.”

 

Bucky raised one eyebrow at him.

 

“Would you believe 70 years backlog of pajamas?”

 

“This is from that weekend I went to Ruthie’s to help with her Christmas baking. And then you and Clint got drunk at that Christmas jazz concert at the coffee house.” Bucky said, crossing his arms.

 

“...Maybe.” Steve at least had the sense to look sheepish.

 

“Well, at least I’ll be warm,” Bucky grumbled. “Did you throw my favourite hoodie in the wash?”

 

“Yeah, I put it away.”

 

“Sounds good.” Bucky turned and started to make his way back upstairs.

 

Steve went back to his book, absentmindedly noting the sound of Bucky’s footsteps across the floor.

 

“Oh my god!” came a sudden shout from upstairs. “Are these more for _the dog and cat? Did you bedazzle them?!_ ”

 

Steve grinned into his book.

  


10.

 

“Ugh!” Steve exclaimed in frustration. He threw up his hands, staring at the silver tree.

 

About 40 silver bulbs and strands of silver tinsel stared back at him.

 

It was the last few days before Christmas, and Steve could not figure out the tree.

 

The first attempt had been simple - a few tasteful glass ornaments, some white lights, and a star on top.

 

It was so boring it made Steve want to go back in the ice.

 

So he’d tried again. The second had included bunches of holly and ivy, candy canes, and some glass bulbs.

 

That wasn’t right, either.

 

On the third attempt, he decided to go big. He found a hot pink plastic tree, and covered it with  a variety of rainbow ornaments and multicoloured lights.

 

Bucky said he got a migraine just looking at it, and Steve couldn’t help but agree.

 

So he tried again and again. Different themes every time- all white with glass snowflakes and blue bulbs, popcorn balls and fake snow, even decorative fruit.

 

Nothing was right.

 

“I mean,” Bucky said, when Steve told him about it. “I think as long as we have a tree, that’s the important part?”

 

Steve glared at him. “The tree brings it all together, though! It has to be perfect.”

 

“Ok,” Bucky replied, taking Steve’s hand and dropping a kiss on it. “Want any help?”

 

“No,” Steve sighed. “I’ll figure it out.”

 

Except now it was less than 48 hours to Christmas day, and Steve still hadn’t. He was back to a bare tree in his living room and no ideas left. He sat back on the couch, feeling disheartened. Dodger climbed into his lap, purr-growling and kneading his legs.

 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, ruffling Dodger’s ears. “You got any ideas there? Maybe some sparkly mice?”

 

Dodger meowed loudly at him, and curled up in his lap.

 

The front door closed. “Stevie?” He heard Bucky call as he stomped snow off his boots.

 

“In here,” he called back, propping his feet on the coffee table.

 

Bucky appeared after a few moments, his cheeks red from being outside. “What are you up to?”

 

“This,” Steve grumped, waving at the tree. “As per usual.”

 

Bucky came to sit with him on the couch. “I think I may have something to help with that, actually.” He handed Steve a small bag.

 

Raising an eyebrow at Bucky, Steve carefully pulled tissue paper out of the the bag and reached in. He felt something oddly shaped and ceramic.

 

Gently, he pulled the object from the bag.

 

Rendered in miniature was their house, decorated for Christmas. Every detail was exact, from the colours of the curtains to the tiny Dodger in one window and the tiny Ella on the front stoop. A loop of ribbon was attached to the roof.

 

“Oh, Buck.” Steve breathed.

 

“Natasha helped me make it,” Bucky replied shyly. “I thought it might give some inspiration.”

 

Steve got up, carefully depositing Dodger on Bucky’s lap. He walked over to the tree and placed the ornament right in the middle, looking at it.

 

“Could you bring me some garland, Buck? And those coloured lights?”

 

“Can do,” Bucky replied.

After an hour, Steve stepped back, done. The coloured lights twinkled merrily at him. Shining gold ribbon was twined around the branches. Glass ornaments sat next to some of the more colourful ornamental fruit, interspersed with multi-coloured bulbs, candy canes, and lace snowflakes.

 

“What do you think?” he asked, as Bucky came in with mugs of eggnog. “A little old, a little new, a little weird, and a little normal.”

 

Bucky took his hand.

 

“Looks perfect, Stevie. Looks like us.”

 

Steve smiled, satisfied. “Exactly.”

  


11.

 

Christmas Eve was upon them when Bucky and Steve put the finishing touches on the house.

 

Bucky stepped into the living room, admiring how the room had come together. Cozy red knitted throws were folded on the couch. The only light came from a small lamp in the corner and the roaring fire. Dodger and Ella were tucked up in front of the hearth, basking in the heat. The tree and its unique assortment of decorations was in front of the picture window, being lit from behind by the gentle glow of the Christmas lights. There was a sizable stack of gifts arranged in front of the tree, waiting for the next morning.

 

As he stood there, a soft piano cover of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” floated out from the kitchen. Bucky smiled as the sound moved closer, and Steve padded into the room carrying his phone.

 

“Nice duds,” Steve commented, smiling at Bucky’s red footie-pajamas, the ones featuring dancing seals wearing Santa hats.

 

“Same to yourself,” Bucky replied. “I like the lights and donuts combination.”

 

Steve grinned, and walked over to stand behind Bucky. He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s middle and hooked his chin over his shoulder.

 

Bucky leaned into his arms. “Think we’re ready?” he murmured.

 

“Mmm,” Steve hummed. Then he startled. “Oh! Almost. Hang on.” And he dashed from the room.

 

Bucky almost tripped backwards. “What? Did you forget cookies for Santa?” he called, exasperated, as he listened to Steve crash upstairs.

 

By the time Steve re-emerged from whatever mission he was on, Bucky was almost asleep on the couch, lulled by the warm fire and low lighting.

 

“Found them!” Steve exclaimed, as he came flying back into the room.

 

Bucky snorted awake. “What? Found what?”

 

Steve smiled at him, and came over to sit on the couch as Bucky sat up, yawning. He placed a beat up cardboard box on Bucky’s lap.

 

Bucky looked at him. “You know presents are supposed to be a Christmas morning thing, right?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

 

“Just _open_ it,” Steve said, nudging him.

 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but still smiled. He popped the lid off the cardboard box, and removed a layer of tissue paper.

 

He glanced down at the knitted objects, confused, and then froze. And looked again.

 

He whipped his head back up and stared at Steve, wide eyed.

 

“Are-- are these--?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly. “Same ones.” He carefully lifted the lumpy stockings out of the box, placing them on Bucky’s lap. One was white with a red heel and an argyle pattern on it. The other was white with a blue heel and stripes.

 

With shaking hands, Bucky touched one finger to the edge of the blue pair.

 

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve said. “That one was-- _is_ , yours.”

 

Bucky blinked, trying to hold back the sudden burn of tears. He swallowed with difficulty around the lump in his throat.

 

“My--” he started, and then had to stop. He cleared his throat.

 

Steve tucked an arm around him.

 

“My ma made these for us,” Bucky finally managed.

 

“Yeah, she sure did,” Steve said. He hugged Bucky to his side. “The Christmas after we moved in together.”

 

Carefully, Bucky picked up the sock, bringing the soft wool to his face.

 

“Where did you get these, Steve?” he asked.

 

“Smithsonian had them,” Steve said, putting a hand on his own red stocking. “I guess after… after we didn’t come back, Becca went to our place and packed everything up. Including these. They never made it to the exhibit they did on me though. A lady that works in the archives, Kim, she contacted me a few weeks ago. Said she found them in storage, and thought we should have them back. I thought they’d be a nice surprise… oh, love.”

 

Bucky hastily tried to scrub the tears from his face, but they kept coming.

 

“My ma made this for me,” he whispered. “Because-- because she loved me.”

 

“She sure did,” Steve whispered back. “And I think, wherever she is, she still does, love.”

 

Bucky buried his face in Steve’s neck, clutching the stocking to his chest.

 

“Thank you, Stevie,” he whispered.

 

Steve dropped a kiss on the top of his head, and sniffed deeply.

 

“You’re welcome, Buck.”

  


12.

  


The day finally arrived for their final (and to Bucky, most important) hurdle.

 

Christmas dinner.

 

Knowing how insane the holidays got, and wanting everyone to be able to make it, they decide on the 28th as the right night- after most people were finished with their own dinners, but still before New Years.

 

Steve had come back from the events of the craft fair with not only accolades for saving the day (and a new hashtag, #CapSavesChristmas), but also with what looked like an entire stall’s worth of paper supplies. He and Sam proceeded to spend a very productive afternoon hand printing card invitations to the dinner (Sam’s contribution as he would not actually be able to make the dinner - “You try explaining to my mom why I wouldn't be there for a full week, Rogers”). They were lovely - creamy white stock paper with Steve’s elegant script in red ink, with gold foil accents and a border of stenciled wreaths and bows. He tucked them in the mail and was very pleased with himself.

 

They worked extra hard to make sure the house was presentable-- not that it usually wasn’t, but two large men ,a cat, and a dog over a holiday would be enough to make any household a little more cluttered than usual. Bucky got down on his hands and knees and actually scrubbed the floor, which he was pretty sure he hadn’t done since the 40s. Steve wandered around with a lint brush the size of his arm, trying to collect all the pet hair that coated many surfaces. They shuffled and reshuffled the furniture, trying to make as much space as possible for their guests to be able to sit down.

 

Bucky called it nerves when they decided to set the tables on the 26th. It took them the better part of four hours to get everything they way they liked it, with a table snaking from the living room into the dining room and ending in the study (Bucky had been reticent about joining them all together, but Steve had brought out the big blue eyes and talked so hopefully about everyone sitting down together _like a family, Buck_ , that Bucky had caved pretty much instantly).

 

It wasn’t so much the table that was the problem-- it was that they kept finding new things to add to it. Steve started it with a stack of hand dyed cloth napkins. Then Bucky added sprigs of holly on top of them. Steve changed the glasses out two times before deciding he liked the first ones. Bucky added centerpieces of poinsettias, and Steve wrapped garland around them. Steve found some candle attempts Bucky had made a few months ago and put them on special gold saucers. Bucky made strings of cranberries to wrap around the napkins, and added some pine cones to the centerpieces.

 

Steve was halfway through frantically writing name cards for each seat when Ella dropped her head on his knee, leash in hand, whining softly. He looked up in a daze, and took a good look around.

 

“Uh, Buck,” he said slowly.

 

Bucky looked up from where he was tying bows around wine glasses.

 

“Yeah?” He said, sounding slightly hysterical.

 

“I think … Maybe… we should give it a rest?” Steve said.

 

Ella _whuffed_ as if in agreement, wandering over to Bucky to stick her snout in his hands. He sank to the floor slowly, running a hand down her back.

 

“Er, maybe,” he replied sheepishly.

 

They took Ella on a long walk around the neighborhood, and then came back and collapsed on the couch.

 

“I think we're probably as ready as we're going to get,” Steve said. “Everything looks good. People know us. It'll be fun.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said. “At least we can get everything ready ahead of time and not worry about a turkey or anything.”

 

“Yeah, you confirmed with the caterers yesterday, right?”

 

“Yep. Should be here by one o’clock the day of. All we have to do is put things in the oven to warm.”

 

“Perfect. Can we… Not move for a few hours?”

 

“Sounds good to me.”

 

Finally, the day arrived. It was sunny, with a light dusting of snow that heralded a calm evening. They cleaned up the pets (well, they washed Ella, who was delighted with the process. Dodger conceded to wearing a festive collar, and that was as good as they were getting from him) and themselves, and settled in to wait for the food to arrive.

 

One came and went. And then one thirty.

 

Steve eventually called the caterers, who as it turned out, were in a total panic. Two of the chefs had gotten food poisoning, one had suddenly eloped to Antigua, and the delivery driver apparently might actually be dead.

 

Steve managed to calm down the teary sounding assistant and assured her it was ok to cancel on them.

 

“Well, fuck a duck,” Bucky said as soon as Steve got off the phone. “People will be here in a few hours. What do we do?”

 

Steve paused and thought about it, staring at his phone.

 

“I mean, I guess call and say to be ready for pizza?” he suggested.

 

“Guess so,” Bucky sighed.

 

Steve called Janet first.

 

“Yeah, sorry about this. Kinda out of nowhere,” he said.

 

“Don't you worry, my darling. We'll handle it. We'll be delighted to be there regardless,” she replied cheerfully.

 

“Thanks, Jan. See you tonight.”

 

Between the two of them, they managed to phone all the guests by 3:00.

 

Steve brought Bucky some tea where he was sitting by his phone.

 

“See? Everybody understood.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky replied. “We have good friends. It's too bad, though. It… was really exciting. To be well enough to handle something this big. That's why I started going crazy setting everything up.”

 

“I know, Buck. But all our friends will be here, and we'll still be hosting. Just -- slightly less fancy than we anticipated. So I think you're still doing pretty good.”

 

Bucky smiled up at him. “Thanks, love. Want to go watch something while we wait for everyone to get here?”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

Which was where they were, three hours later, when the doorbell rang.

 

Steve looked at his phone, and then Bucky.

 

“They're an hour early…?”

 

They hustled to the door and yanked it open.

 

On the step was Janet, Ruthie, Pietro, and Wanda. Janet and Pietro were carrying between them two extremely large casserole dishes and a roasting pan.

 

“Happy holidays, my dears! Even if the important one is already past,” Janet said, winking as she shouldered past a slightly dumbfounded Bucky.

 

The rest of them followed her, happy greetings ringing in the hallway as the whole group made their way to the kitchen.

 

“I don't -- I don't understand.” Steve stared dumbfounded as they trundled past him. He took the casserole dish from Pietro and opened it up. It contained a fragrant squash casserole.

 

“It's simple, Steven. You couldn't bring Christmas dinner to us, so we brought it to you.” Ruthie patted his shoulder.

 

Bucky popped open the roasting pan to see an entire roasted turkey, crispy golden skin shining a little under the kitchen lights.

 

“How…?”

 

“Listen, you grow up with 7 siblings, you learn where to get a roast turkey in a hurry.”

 

“... Right.”

 

The doorbell rang again, interrupting the conversation. Bucky left Steve figuring out where to put the dishes to go answer the door.

 

He opened the door to find Natasha and Clint with another covered dish and a plastic grocery bag.

 

“Good timing,” Clint said. “These pierogies are getting heavy.” They came inside and headed to the kitchen.

 

Someone called out, and Bucky stuck his head out the door. Thor was coming up the walk with Jane, Tara, and Bruce in tow. They all carried dishes and bags.

 

“My friend!” Thor bellowed. “We come bearing the traditional sweetmeats and the traditional pummeled root vegetables!”

 

“He means mashed potatoes,” Tara said dryly, following him in the house. Jane smiled and held up a pot as she wandered past.

 

“And some curry!” Bruce said cheerily, holding his dish up as he crossed the threshold.

 

“... Awesome?” Bucky said.

 

Over the next 45 minutes, all of their guests arrived in small batches. And all of them carried various food containers.

 

Tony and Pepper appeared with take out from a local high brow restaurant and wine (which Tony immediately gave up in favor of Bucky's “special” Christmas cocktails).

 

Maria and Coulson showed up with pies. Fury arrived shortly afterwards bearing craft beer and roasted vegetables.

 

Peter and Kamala arrived juggling samosas and a platter of sandwiches. Scott, Cassie, and the Van Dynes followed shortly afterwards with cheesecake, rolls, and a green bean casserole (Scott delightedly making S _ant_ a Claus jokes).

 

The crew rolled in with much clamor and a variety of tamales, fried chicken, and fish cakes.

 

The table in the kitchen began to groan under the weight of all the dishes. Eventually, everyone got a plate of what they liked and they settled down to their places at the table. Janet took a look at the place cards and reached over to pinch Steve's cheek, which made him blush bright pink and made Bucky snicker.

 

It was incredibly loud and chaotic. Everybody was talking and laughing over each other, sharing each other's plates.

 

It was perfect.

 

The night finally drew to a close around 2am. Bucky bumped Steve's shoulder companionably at the door as they waved goodbye to Clint, who'd stayed behind to help with some dishes.  

 

“Can you find my phone? I think I left it in the living room.”

 

“Sure thing, Buck.” Steve dropped a kiss on his cheek and wandered off.

 

Bucky went back to the kitchen and straightened his hair in the mirror on the wall, waiting. After a few minutes, he heard Steve call out.

 

“Love? I can't find it. Want to come help me look?”

 

“Sure, Stevie. I'm sure it's in there.” He padded into the living room,stopping in the door.

 

“So, you looked everywhere?” he asked.

 

Steve looked up from where he was digging around in the couch and, shrugging his shoulders, came over to where Bucky was standing.

 

“Think so,” he replied.

 

“Think you missed one last place,” Bucky said. He pointed up.

 

Steve looked up and immediately rolled his eyes.

 

“Really, Buck? Don't think you really need excuses to kiss me.”

 

“Well,” Bucky replied, reaching up to finger the mistletoe. “Any excuse I've got is a good one. Besides, it's special mistletoe.”

 

“Really?” Steve asked, sounding disbelieving. “Let me see.” He came around to where Bucky was standing.

 

And then gasped, at the sight of the ring tied into the bunch of mistletoe.

 

Steve whipped around, eyes huge. They only grew larger as Bucky dropped to one knee, and he covered his hands over his mouth.

 

“I love you, Stevie.” Bucky said, simply. “More than anything. We've been through so much, we got separated for so long, but we're still here. And in the end, it's the one constant: we're together.”

 

He stood, and brought Steve's hands away from his mouth. He pressed a kiss to his Steve's fingers.

 

“What do you say, Steve? Can't we have this? After everything… don’t you want this? Because you've got it. You've got me, forever. So what do you say?”

 

Steve gulped a few times, trying to clear his throat, and then settled for nodding furiously before dragging Bucky into a kiss.

 

Bucky laughed, full of delight.

 

“So, I take it that's a yes?”

 

“Yes, you ridiculous, cheesy sap,” Steve finally managed, pressing another kiss to Bucky's lips as punctuation. “Of course it's a yes. Of course I want this forever.”

 

Bucky grinned, huge and free and so full of joy. He cupped Steve's face in his hands, and brought his forehead to touch Steve's.

 

“Merry Christmas, Steve,” he whispered.

 

“Merry Christmas, Bucky.”  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS BITCHES  
> GUESS WHO'S BACK
> 
> This is probably the fastest I've every written anything in my entire life - from getting the idea on December 8th to finishing this less than 10 minutes ago on the 25th. Alllllll the thanks goes to my writing partner extraordinaire TheDowagerEmpress for editing the crap out of these shenanigans - side note, they wrote some EPIC Stucky Christmas smut and it is fantastic, for sure go read. Merry Christmas buddy!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me guys! I think this might be the end of this AU, but hell, I said that last time too. Thanks so much for reading, and have a very happy holidays.


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